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raven-dor · 3 months ago

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wish you talked to me

in which james potter is oblivious about his feelings, and it takes lily evans to help him realize it

PAIRING: james potter x ravenclaw!reader

WARNINGS: given last name, given middle name, angst, banter, slight arguing, mentions of death eaters, REGULUS LEAVES GRIMMAULD PLACE, oblivious james, jealousy, fluff ending

WORD COUNT: 3.0k

The house was empty, her footsteps could be heard from across the property. Y/N’s parents had left her home alone for a “much needed vacation.” She knew what they were really doing.

They’d asked her before to join, she declined. They then grounded her, taking away her wand and blocking the Floo so that she was stuck in her prison. Her father had been friends with ‘Voldemort’ during their time at Hogwarts, and her mother did anything her father said. The perfect wife.

Y/N vowed she would never be like her mother. Not that she blamed her; standing up to her father took a whole other level of courage neither of them possessed.

Since her parents' departure, she’d been writing letters to Regulus, planning his escape from 12 Grimmauld Place. He had also tired of Walburga’s antics, and she couldn’t blame him.

If she was being honest, it was surprising how long he stayed, but Y/N was proud regardless. At first, she'd offered her home as his new residence but quickly realized her parents would sell him out without thinking twice. Then she came to a revolution so simple that she was shocked she hadn’t thought of it first.

Why separate siblings?

Owling James Potter was something she never thought she would have to do. It’s not that they weren’t friends, quite the opposite, but they saved their talking for when they were back at Hogwarts. She got a howler back from James (and Sirius) immediately, expressing their eagerness to house him, and from Sirius, his gratitude for helping his little brother.

The plan began August 25th, at Midnight. Regulus ensured his parents were asleep, jumping out of the window and onto his broom. He leviated his trunk behind him, and after meeting up with Y/N at her home, flew the rest of the way together to Potter Manor. Minutes into their flight, a massive storm hit them.

Y/N groaned, yelling over the thunder. “Merlin, this is dismal!”

They practically dropped to the ground, sighing in relief. Regulus was fine, but Y/N, who was not a quidditch player by any means, was not used to flying for long periods of time.

When Regulus brought that up before their flight, she laughed. “I’d do anything for you, Reg, you know that.”

They approached the red door (fitting, Y/N thought, for the most obnoxious Gryffindor she’d ever known.) She laughed. Poor Mrs.Potter, she must have found James and his father's bold nature tiring, especially being the only Slytherin in the house. They hadn’t even knocked before it cracked open, Euphemia standing on the other side, sporting a beautifully elegant smile.

“Hello dears. Come in, the storm must have caught you.”

Y/N nodded. “Hardly.”

Fleamont stood behind his wife, smirking. “Hardly? You’re positively drenched.” He reached grabbing Regulus’s things. “Thank you for escorting Regulus, Ms.Baudelaire.”

“It’s not a problem, really. He’s my best friend. I’d-”

A pair of strong arms wrapped around her waist, lifting her off the ground. “Y/N/N!!!” He squeezed my waist. “Godric, it’s good to see you.” He leaned down, whispering in her ear. “You’re looking great.”

She blushed, playfully hitting at his chest before giving up and hugging him back. Sirius and Regulus looking at each other knowingly. The two sixth years had been dancing around their feelings for years, and practically everyone in school knew they were destined.

“It’s nice to see you too, Jamie.”

James released his hold, eyebrows furrowed at the fact that she was soaking wet. “Why are your clothes soaked through?”

She laughed, rubbing the back of her neck awkwardly. “It’s a funny story, really.”

Sirius interrupted. “Your clever little girlfriend-”

She sighed, glaring at the boy. “I’m not his girlfriend.”

“Whatever. Your not-girlfriend had the clever idea of flying all the way here in the rain.”

James looked back at the girl, who was now staring anywhere but him. “Is that true?”

“I-” Y/N looked to Regulus for help, who simply shrugged. She glared, he was so unhelpful sometimes. “Yes?”

James scoffed, crossing his arms. “That’s rather irresponsible of you, don’t you think?”

She raised her eyebrows, laughing. “Oh, that's hilarious. You’re such a hypocrite, James.”

“Ask to use my floo next time instead of putting your life in danger.”

“I have an honest question for you, Potter. Do you think before you talk? Merlin, I couldn’t use the floo! Can anyone tell me why?” She looked around the room. “Hm?”

Regulus murmured. “Because the floo can be traced.”

“Thank you, Regulus.” She looked back at James with a look of satisfaction. “Because it can be traced. I thought this through James, but the next time my best friend is running away, I’ll be sure to let you know my every move.” She scoffed, mumbling. “I didn’t realize you were my handler.”

He sighed, reaching out. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

She ducked out of his way and quickly addressed his parents. “Mr. and Mrs. Potter, thank you for taking Regulus into your home. I hope I can visit soon.”

Euphemia nodded. “Anytime, my dear.”

Fleamont looked outside. “If you would like, you could stay the night. The storm is getting rather out of hand.”

Y/N shook my head. “My parents return tomorrow. I have to make it look like I’ve been in the house before they get back. Cleaning and such.” She smiled softly. “But thank you.” She turned to Regulus, winking. “Don’t get into any trouble while I’m gone.”

He rolled his eyes, hugging her tightly. “How can I, you’re taking it all with you.”

She laughed, her eyes watering. “Be safe Reggie.”

“You too Y/N/N.”

She nodded toward Sirius. “Black.”

“Baudelaire. Thank you for taking care of my little brother. He needed a good influence in his life.”

“I think you’ll do just fine.” He smirked, and she muttered. “For the most part.” Y/N turned to James last, sarcasm dripping from her voice. “Am I permitted to go?”

She didn’t wait for a response, walking out of the front door and mounting her broom. The door whipped open, and James practically fell out. open, and James ran out.

“What do you want, Potter?” Y/N fought the urge to roll her eyes.

“You know that’s not what I meant.”

“Oh, really? Then what did you mean by it? Because it sounded like I need to run everything by you.”

“You know that I worry about you. I-” He paused. “You know I care about you. Your safety is important to me.”

She sighed, leaning towards him.

“Thanks, James, but I can take care of myself.” She flew higher, grinning. “See you at school!”

It was odd, being friends with the man she’d had a crush on since second year. She had barely been able to admit it to herself, let alone Pandora and Regulus. They’d hung out much more than normal, getting lunch whenever they had free time. Alice Longbottom practically flew done the hall, grabbing Y/N by the shoulders.

“Have you heard?”

She laughed. “Heard what, Alice?”

She squealed. “There’s going to be a ball!”

Y/N laughed again. “You mean the ball that happens at the same time every year?”

“Yes, but there’s a twist.” She smiled. “Sixths years are invited!”

“Rowena! Are you serious? When?”

James laughed. “You just found this out? We’ve known about this since May when we snuck into Minnie’s office.”

Y/N rolled my eyes, glaring playfully at the boy. “Well, not everyone can break the school rules whenever they please, James.”

Alice hummed in agreement, walking away while muttering something about how she had to tell Frank.

Y/N smiled longingly. “Those two are made for each other.”

James looked down at her, his cheeks flushing. “Yeah, they are.” He cleared his throat. “Have any idea who’ll ask you?”

“No idea. I think I’ll go alone. Stag, if you will.”

“Very funny.” He nudged her. “But that’s rubbish. Anyone would be lucky to have you. You’re gorgeous.”

Y/N looked up at him, eyes wide. “Really?”

He gulped. “Yeah. Of course.”

Her jaw was weak as she stared at him. A student brushed past her, and she realized that they were in public, directly in front of the Great Hall. “We better get to lunch, or Sirius will eat our food.”

James laughed. “Of course, right as always.” He held his arm out. “After you.”

She giggled, throwing her head back. “Why thank you.”

Weeks had gone by, and James still hadn’t asked her. The sixth years decided to meet in the library and study together for an upcoming potions exam, when the topic of the ball came up yet again. Y/N grew quiet, literally burying her face inside her book.

Alice leaned forward, whispering. “So James, who are you taking to the ball?”

James groaned. “I uh..” he trailed off, “I don’t know. I might ask…” Y/N looked up, immediately making eye contact with him. Shit. “I might ask Evans.”

The table froze as Lily walked up behind him. She tilted her head. “What about Evans?”

James cleared his throat, turning around sheepishly. “Evans. Hi. I- Do you want to go to the ball with me?”

Lily’s eyes widened, and she looked over at Y/N, Sirius, and Remus. The Ravenclaw’s eyes watered, but she smiled all the same. He wasn’t hers, and she knew that Lily had liked James at one point. Y/N didn’t want to take that away from her, seeing what it would be like to date him. She looked back at James hesitantly, nodding. “Sure. I’d love to.”

Y/N harshly wiped away the tears, standing up. Her chair scratched against the floor, and the whole of the study hall looked over. She smiled, waving. “I’m finished. So I’m just-” She hiccuped, slapping a hand over her mouth. “I- I’m so sorry, I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

James looked at her sadly, but Y/N couldn’t find it in her to care. “I’m-” She stalked off toward McGonagall, handing her her papers.

The older witch whispered, placing a comforting hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Ms. Baudelaire, are you alright?”

She smiled, nodding. “Of course, Professor. Why wouldn’t I be?”

Spinning on her heels, she walked past her friends without a second look. The door seemed to be a thousand miles away, and she started running toward it. The hall made her let out a sigh of relief, and she dropped to the floor, staring blankly.

Sirius crouched down. “You alright Baudelaire?”

Remus scoffed. “She’s obviously not fine, Pads.”

“Well I was just-”

Y/N smiled. “It’s alright Remus. He was just being nice.”

Sirius nodded, smirking at the werewolf. “Yeah, Remus.” He sat beside her and sighed. “He’s a right prat, Y/N. If he can’t see how mad you are about him, or how mad he is about you, then he’s blind.” He murmured. “Technically he is legally blind.”

Remus nodded in agreement. “Why don’t you just go with a group of friends? That would be… fun.”

Regulus stood beside Remus, staring sympathetically. Y/N smiled. “Do you and Dora want to make it a party?”

Regulus’s eyes widened, and he mumbled. “I- I actually invited her as my date.”

She laughed, slapping a hand over her mouth. “I’m sorry, it’s not funny. That’s-” She smiled kindly. “That’s really great, Reggie.”

“You can still come with us if you want.”

“No thanks, Reg.” She shook her head. “I don’t think I’ll go.”

Sirius smirked, standing up and extending a hand. “Y/N Beatrice Bauldeaire, will you go to the ball with me?”

Y/N glared. “Sirius don’t ask me because you feel badly.”

He scoffed. “Please, Baudelaire. You’re hot, I’m hot. It makes sense.”

“I-” She tilted her head, blushing from the compliment. “That’s a fair point.” She took his hand, standing up. “Thank you, Sirius.”

“I’m lucky to have you.”

Her heart stopped. “Anyone would be lucky to have you. You’re gorgeous.”

James’s messy hair peaked out of the study hall, walking over to the four students. He looked shy, which was unbeffiting of him. She felt satisfied, he should feel bad. “Alright?”

Y/N stared at the ground, nodding. “Fine.”

He nodded back. “Good.”

She looked up, glaring at him. “More than fine. I’m going with Sirius to the ball.”

James’s eyebrows rose. “Padfoot? And you? Is this a joke?”

She tilted her head. “Where’s the joke? Sirius is hot; I’m hot. And better yet…” She walked up to him, crossing her arms. “He knows what he wants.”

Sirius laughed, falling against the wall. Remus covered his smirk with his hand.

“Merlin. Okay.” He smiled bitterly. “Well, have fun, Baudelaire. I’ll see you at the ball.”

“See you.” She looked back at her friends, waving, and walking back to Ravenclaw Tower.

James turned to his best friends, thoroughly confused. “What is wrong with her?”

Remus rolled his eyes. “You are oblivious, Prongs.”

Sirius pushed off the wall, nodding. “You’re screwed.”

The girls decided to all get ready together, crowding into the Gryffindor girl’s dorm.

Alice was going with Frank, (obviously), Mary with Amos Diggory, Marlene with Dorcas, Pandora with Regulus, and Lily with James (she was still apoligizing.) Their dresses were all from Madam Malkin’s, customized to their personalities and, as Marlene said, overall aura.

She wasn’t wrong. Marlene’s dress matched her perfectly, a sparkly black gown with a high slit and a deep v neck, she looked like she was the moon, which was perfect, considering that Dorcas was the definition of the sun.

Lily chose green, Alice chose pink, Mary chose yellow, Pandora chose blue, and Y/N chose a cream dress with flower detailing. They looked like princesses.

The rest of the girls left soon after they finished getting ready, but Y/N lingered. Sometimes, she wished she had just said no to Sirius, and stayed in her room, sleeping through the night instead of dancing. Yet here she was, walking down the Gryffindor steps and holding her breath when she looked down at Sirius.

“You look gorgeous.”

Y/N rolled her eyes. “Potter.”

He laughed. “Back to Potter now?”

She didn’t even dignify him with a response, turning to Sirius. “Ready to go?”

He nodded, winking. “After you, my lady.”

She grinned, smacking his arm. “Shut it.”

The ballroom was exquisite, covered with freshly bloomed flowers, and golden and silver trees. The floor was white marble, and the band’s instruments were mirroring the trees, also being gold and silver. Y/N leaned her head on Sirius’s shoulder, mumbling. “It’s gorgeous.”

“It is.” She followed his gaze, smiling.

“Go talk to him, Sirius.”

“Really?” He looked down. “And leave you here?”

“Well, I didn’t say all night. This is a ball you know. I expect to dance.”

He laughed. “Why have we only just become friends?”

She rolled her eyes. “I have no idea. Now go.” She walked over to the punch, taking a glass before sitting beside Lily. “And how is your evening?”

“Potter will not stop talking about you and Sirius.” The redhead complained.

“I’m sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry.”

“Lily…”

“I should have never said yes. It was-”

“Lily, you are not the one who needs to apoligize.” Y/N laid a hand over hers. “You’re a good friend.”

James’s unruly hair came into view, and she stood, smiling once more at the redhead. “Have fun. I’ll be dancing.”

The ball had been raging for hours, and Y/N had spent most of her time dancing with 3/4th’s of the Marauders. Her legs were aching, and she walked away, grabbing another glass of punch and sitting down, leaning her head back. Rowena, she thought, how do they do it? Some of her classmates hadn’t left the dance floor the entirety of the dance. It was heartwarming, she’d decided, seeing all her friends having fun. Sirius offered his hand to Remus, and Regulus was currently being led by Pandora, who was giggling at how red he was. A hand grasped her shoulder, and she tensed, tightening her hold on her wand.

“Woah, Baudelaire. It’s just me.”

“Oh.” She didn’t bother looking at him. “Hello, Potter.”

She could feel the eye roll. “Merlin Y/N/N. Give it up already. What did I even do to-”

Y/N whipped around, scoffing. “Oh I don’t know! I just thought you would ask me to dance. Stupid of me to assume.”

James was bright red. “I’m sorry Y/N/N. I didn’t know if you wanted to- you know.”

“I actually don’t know.”

“I didn’t know if you wanted to go with me. I thought you’d want to go with Regulus.”

“I feel you need a better radar of who likes who, James.” She sighed. “I-” She smiled. “It’s in the past.”

“Would you like to dance then?” He held his arm out. “I believe this song is one of your favorites.”

She grinned, looking over in shock at the band. “I don’t remember telling you that I liked this song, James.” She whipped back toward him, squinting. “How did you know?”

“I may or may not have been under my cloak when I passed you talking to Remus.” He paused, tilting his head curiously. “You tell Remus a lot.”

“Fantastic observation James.” She stood up, putting her hand in his. “Are we going to dance or-”

“After you.”

She rested her head on his chest, swaying to the music. He looked down, humming. “You know you look really beautiful tonight.” James spun her quickly, her hands landing on his chest. “You took my breath away.”

She threw her head back in laughter, not caring he could definitely tell she was blushing. “That’s rather cliche of you, Potter.”

He smiled. “Yes, it is. But it worked, didn’t it?” He leaned down, whispering in her ear. “You’re smiling.”

“I’m always smiling.” She glared. “You’re not the exception.”

“Oh?” He raised an eyebrow. “That hurts, love.”

“Don’t-” She stopped. “I lied.” She whispered. “You make me smile more than I should.”

“I think,” he leaned down. “I want to kiss you.”

“James.” Y/N scolded. “Surely your date would be disappointed?”

“Who do you think encouraged me dance with you?”

“I don’t want to hurt her…” She mumbled. “But I really want to kiss you.”

“Then do it.” He smirked. “Don’t be shy, love. I’m right here.”

taglist: @beebeechaos

#james potter x reader #james potter #harry potter #harry potter fanfiction #fanfiction #literature #marauders era #marauders #sirius black #regulus black #fluff #angst #banter

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aventurineswife · 10 days ago

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Can i request blade, sampo and feixiao (separately) with a cat-hybrid gn reader? (Its just catgirl but make it gn lol) thank uu ^^

Back to the kitty, 'cause they're kinda pretty

Tags: Blade x Reader, Feixiao x Reader, Sampo x Reader, Cat-Hybrid Reader, Fluff, Mild Teasing, Lighthearted Interactions, Sparring (Feixiao), Banter (Sampo), Hints of Angst (Blade), Comfort.

The Stellaron Hunter’s base was eerily quiet as you padded through the dimly lit halls, your tail swaying behind you. Blade had summoned you for a mission, though he hadn’t provided any details. You found him in his room, sitting cross-legged with his eyes closed, as if meditating.

“Could you knock next time?” he muttered without opening his eyes.

“I did.” you replied, crossing your arms and flicking an ear. He opened his eyes, one eyebrow arched in amusement.

“Did you now? I didn’t hear a thing.”

You rolled your eyes and sat next to him. “So, what’s the mission?”

“There’s no mission.” His gaze softened ever so slightly. “I called you here… because I wanted to talk.”

Your ears perked up, curiosity winning over. Blade wasn’t exactly one for casual conversation. “About?”

“I was wondering,” he started, his gaze flickering to the tips of your ears, “how you manage to find calm so easily. You seem… at peace, while I struggle to find it.”

You smiled, stretching out and curling your tail around yourself. “It’s easier when you stop fighting yourself. I accept my instincts, even if they’re different.” You flicked his bandaged hand playfully. “Maybe you should do the same. There’s a balance you haven’t found yet.”

His eyes narrowed, yet he didn’t pull his hand back. “Balance, huh? Maybe one day…” He trailed off, but the look in his eyes told you that perhaps, for the first time, he was willing to try.

The Xianzhou Yaoqing’s training grounds were empty, save for the rustle of your tail as you crouched, preparing for a sparring match with Feixiao. She stood across from you, her hands on her hips, a smirk playing on her lips.

“Think you can keep up with a General, kitty?” she teased, flicking her fox ears.

You narrowed your eyes, playful determination sparking in your gaze. “Only one way to find out, General.”

The sparring session started with a rush of speed. Feixiao was fast—faster than anyone you’d trained with—but your natural agility as a cat hybrid gave you an edge. Dodging her strikes, you twirled around her, even managing a quick swipe at her coat.

“Impressive!” she laughed, sounding genuinely delighted. “Didn’t think you had it in you.” She moved with ferocity, her eyes focused entirely on you.

You felt a sense of pride bubbling up as you narrowly avoided another strike, purring softly despite the intensity of the match. In one daring move, you swerved and managed to knock her slightly off-balance. She chuckled as she stumbled, finally calling a truce.

“Not bad. If we weren’t sparring, I’d be considering you for the Cloud Knights,” she said, offering a hand to pull you up. “Though next time, don’t hold back.”

Your grin widened. “Only if you promise not to either, General.”

It was a quiet night in Belobog’s Underworld when you found yourself wandering into Sampo’s hideout. You’d just slipped in silently when he called out, “Is that my favorite cat?” His voice held a teasing lilt, and he looked up with a wide grin.

“How did you know I was here?” you asked, tail flicking in surprise.

“Please, I always know when there’s a silent visitor,” he laughed, stepping closer with that ever-charming smirk. “Besides, you practically smell of curiosity.”

You rolled your eyes. “Or maybe you just can’t resist sneaking up on everyone.”

He chuckled, reaching out to scratch behind your ear. To your surprise, it actually felt… nice. You closed your eyes for a moment, letting out a soft purr.

“See? I’ve got the magic touch,” he said, clearly delighted. You playfully swatted his hand away, and he pretended to look hurt. “Alright, alright, no need to claw me.”

His voice dropped, taking on a softer tone as he met your eyes. “Hey, thanks for stopping by, though. It's been a while since I’ve had good company that wasn’t trying to rob me or arrest me.”

A warmth filled you at his words, and you smirked, nudging him playfully with your shoulder. “Guess even Sampo Koski has his soft spots.”

“Only for the right company,” he replied, giving you a wink that made your ears twitch as your heart skipped a beat.

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quixotical-lymbo · 2 months ago

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Goes on my knees to beg for a D-16 or Orion Pax x smaller autobot reader— where they’re more picked on by the guards for their height and uselessness, so he stands up for them and such. Like a big protector for the reader (it can be any gender!)

Pairing: D-16 x gn!small-framed!Reader Rating: SFW Summary: When you're a small bot working in the mines, it's difficult to keep up with your much larger than life miners. However, there's always a bot in your corner. Warnings/Tags: Again, SPOILERS YALL, Headcanons, cybertronian reader, fluff, and slight angst. Word Count: 1000+ words

How you two met

🟡 When his team was gaining a new member, D-16 met you for the first time

🟡 You were…tiny to say the least and he wondered how or why you were working in a dangerous place

🟡 With your helm barely reaching his midsection plating and bright-eyed look, he didn't even give you a day before you'd buckle under the horrors of the mine

Becoming friends…?

🟡 It wasn't intentional and purely accidental, but he ended up eavesdropping on your conversations with the other miners in the group. It was the moment your intake spilled the name of a Prime he's admired so much did he finally join the convo.

🟡 Yet…this convo turned into a heated debate about how cool or uncool Megatronus is. You took the side of uncool while D-16 took a stubborn defense of his favorite Prime.

🟡 Since then, whenever the two of you crossed paths it always ended with butting helms or mumbling insults under your breaths.

Helping each other

🟡 One moment you were carefully extracting energon from a hard-to-reach vein when a rumbling caught your attention

🟡 Screams and shouts of a cave collapsing caused you to panic as you struggled to squeeze out of the shaft you were in

🟡 You were one servo out when you felt a bigger one envelop yours and yanked you free.

🟡 It was hard to see when your optics were squeezed shut and you were forced against a chassis as whoever saved you kept running until you both were out

🟡 It was D-16?

🟡 "...thanks."

🟡 "Don't mention it. Like…ever."

🟡 "But…"

🟡 "Didn't I say-"

🟡 "You're still holding my servo."

🟡 He ripped away from you like you burned him as his faceplate was set ablaze

🟡 You could be heard giggling behind him as he scrambled to get away

Protecting each other

🟡 Perhaps something happened to cause Darkwing to be up your aft, but whatever the reason was D-16 felt that you didn't deserve being pushed around and yelled at

🟡 The last straw was seeing Darkwing, quite literally, snatch you up and bark insults in your face

🟡 He was hesitant to step in until he noticed your shaky plating and teary optics.

🟡 Placating Darkwing wasn't easy and D-16 earned a scolding and harsh jab to the side of his helm, but it was worth since he managed to get you away from the taller mech

🟡 You smiled at him and mouthed a thank you.

🟡 He returned the smile with a grin of his own.

Your dynamic with his other friend, Orion Pax

🟡 Polite and simple

🟡 Nothing really much to say, you usually encounter him if he's hanging off of D-16

🟡 Sometimes the two of you engage in petty banter about D-16's love for Megatronus, other times it's to vehemently deny Orion's accusation of your feelings toward his best friend

🟡 When this happens, D-16 is confused when comes back to you chasing after a laughing Pax

Nicknames

🟡 Oh boy, he called you all sorts of things (especially before you two were cool with each other). From pipsqueak to scraplet, D-16 had a range of short-related nicknames to call you.

🟡 You called him D sometimes, even called him Big D once and it felt…wrong for some reason. So, you stuck with D.

Friends…?

🟡 You silly frenemy relationship with the silver mech grew warmer overtime

🟡 Still, it was weird to call him a friend…he was more of a…coworker you wouldn't mind sticking to if you had to be partnered up

🟡 For D-16, he somewhat felt the same way, but something in his spark was telling him otherwise. It didn't help that a certain blue and red mech kept teasing him with fake googly optics whenever you and him were standing near each other.

🟡 It was extremely awkward for a few chords (days) until another incident with Darkwing brought the two of you closer together.

🟡 That incident involved getting scolded again, but instead of D saving you, it was you saving him by taking the fall

🟡 The two of you were in the med bay talking with each other. Intimate whispers and breathy laughs were exchanged. That night, the coldness between you two melted into a closer bond.

🟡 Then, he and Pax were nowhere to be found after the Iacon race.

Dynamic after the events of the movie

🟡 You didn't see D-16 for a while until he returned and…he's changed.

🟡 It was one thing learning that your entire existence was a lie set up by a figure you once looked up to, but witnessing a mech you secretly admired turn into the very thing you were horrified by was…you couldn't even process the emotions that surged within you.

🟡 After receiving a cog, you can decide to follow D-16, or Megatron as he named himself, or stay.

🟡 If you decided to follow after Megatron, expect his suspicion and lack of trust in your desire to join his cause. However, it doesn't take long for you to worm your way into his spark when you speak passionately about his cause and his goal to rule over Cybertron without him needing to corrupt you himself. Whether or not the previous feelings from before his change into the mech he is now is uncertain. Megatron is too busy with rallying troops/re-establishing the pecking order and you're left figuring out how to be of service to him. Only time can tell.

🟡 If you decide to stay, you'll never see D-16 again. Only rare glimpses of Megatron from a distance.

😼 - I do not give permission for anyone to translate, copy, republish, or plagiarize any of my written works. I provide no permission for any of my literary works to be used in artificial intelligence. banner(s) by @kodaswrld !!

#transformers one spoilers #transformers one d 16 x reader #transformers one #d 16 x reader #transformers one megatron #slight angst #quixotical answers #thanks for requesting #kinda fluff #banter #choices #orion pax

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going-to-ikea-for-the-fries · 10 months ago

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Sleep. || Simon "Ghost" Riley fluff

[MY MASTERLIST]

Rating: G Words: 1K~ CW: none Tags: ghostxreader, fluff!!!, gn!reader (you/your pronouns), light angst/plot twist at the end. Summary: Neither of you can sleep. Comforting and Cuddling ensues. a/n: I saw this in a vision. That's it. That's the tweet.

A knock on your door stirred you awake. Not that you were actually sleeping. Sitting up in bed, you inquired a loud “Hm?!” in response to the knock.

You didn’t need to ask who it was. Only one man in this whole godforsaken base would dare make his way to your room at 1:48 AM on a Thursday and disturb your (not) sleeping.

As such, there was no need to haphazardly throw on a face covering of some kind while making your way to the door hastily. So you simply remained sat amidst the pile of blankets of your hard wooden bed.

The door popped open with a light woosh and he stepped inside the room without a word. In the few seconds that he was illuminated from behind by the hall light, you saw nothing but a hulking silhouette carrying a rolled-up sleeping bag under one arm, and a ratty pillow under the other.

The door closed, letting it all return to darkness again. He blended with the nothingness of the room quite well. The only reason you knew where he was, was due to his footsteps, his workboots making rhythmic thuds on the vinyl flooring of your room.

You heard the rustling of the sleeping bag as he rolled it out on the floor, so close to your bed that he could probably slide his way under it if he felt like it (and if he fit). Then, he tossed his pillow down onto the sleeping bag with a light thud.

His clothes rustled in the darkness as he laid down on the bag and then he let out a soft huff muffled by the mask you knew he was undoubtedly wearing.

He wasn’t even lying inside the bag. You certainly didn’t hear him unzip it… He didn’t try to fit his enormous height inside the standard-issue bag, which would likely fit him like a potato sack to a kid trying to win a sack race… aka hanging loosely around his chest as he clings on for dear life.

You allowed yourself to lay down too, snuggling onto the warm blankets again as you fixed them atop you.

For a while, there was just silence, unsettling, deep silence that you could feel in your bones… And the pair of deep breaths in the air.

“You alright?” You asked, almost checking up on him.

“Dandy.”

“Couldn’t sleep?”

“Nope.”

“Mkay.”

Another long period of silence.

You knew better than to question Simon on his decisions. Not that coming to sleep on the floor beside your bed like a dog at its owner's feet isn't quite the head-scratcher.

“Does my company help with the lack of sleep?” You found yourself asking.

“No.”

“Hm.”

You considered your curiosity sated, or at least, sated enough to allow you to go back to (fruitlessly) attempt to fall aslee-

“I just like hearin’ you breathe.”

The blankets rustled as you abruptly rolled over, your head hanging your head over the edge of the bed to peer at him forgetting that, in the darkness, you can’t see shit, let alone see him on the floor.

“Need to know I’m alive?” You tease sarcastically.

“Need to know you 'aven’t been kidnapped in the night more like.” His tone is dry and sincere.

You just let out a single dry chuckle. "Alright.”

You make no motion to return to your previous spot. You just keep looking at the empty darkness of the floor where Simon is lying.

“Y’wanna come up here?”

“You askin’ me to share a bed?”

“Mhm.”

“No.”

“Why?

“It’s stupid.”

“You’re scared you’ll end up cuddlin’ me?”

“Not bloody scared. Just don’t wanna risk it.”

“We can sleep back to back.”

“I’ve seen how you sleep. You’re always on your stomach. The only way to sleep back to back with you is if I’m on top of you and suffocating you into the mattress.”

“You act as if that wouldn't be fun.” You quip.

No response.

You take a deep breath and finally roll over, turning to face the wall your bed is pressed up against.

There are no sounds besides breathing again. Long minutes go by with neither of you talking… and neither of you sleeping.

After having had enough, you huff.

“Get up here.”

He doesn't move immediately... But after a solid 10 seconds, there’s a rustling, and then comes the sound of laces being undone and his boots being slipped off and set aside.

Soon, you feel the warm blankets being lifted, momentarily exposing your back to the cold air outside of the comfy cocoon you've secured yourself. The mattress depresses behind you as he shifts his legs next to yours, and then he drapes the blankets around his own back.

It’s a bit of a tight fit. The standard-issue British Army beds are already on the narrow end for one Simon Riley lying on his back, so two people lying on their sides (one of them being Simon)… is cutting it very close.

But you don’t mind. In fact, he shuffles closer, his chest coming to press against your back, as he wordlessly spoons you from behind.

A smile graces your lips as you feel the strong and unrelenting muscles that compose all of Simon's body press against your softer build.

His robust, scarred arm slides over the dip at your waist and wraps around you tight, constricting you to him, as his big, calloused hand rests across both of your forearms near your face.

It should feel awkward... but surprisingly, it doesn't.

In return, one of your feet nudges against Simon's and so he slips his leg in between your own from behind, rolling you ever slightly over onto your tummy, so he can keep you 'lodged' between him and the mattress.

A soft, content sigh escapes your lips as you feel the pressure of his body pressing on yours, his weight reminding you that he's there, holding you.

It's... nice.

You never thought there'd ever come a day where you'd experience the mixing scents of his aftershave and his laundry detergent due to the balaclava he never lifts... Or the sound of his rhythmic breathing just behind your ear as he nuzzles into your hair... Or his heartbeat slowing and relaxing against your back.

You find that he fell asleep almost instantly upon holding you, finally lulled into the comfortable, safe sleep he so desperately lacked.

It's a shame that soon you'll have to kill him...

#ikea writes 💚#cod fanfic #simon ghost riley #simon ghost x reader #simon riley x you #masterlist #cod modern warfare #fluff #light angst #banter

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batmanlovesnirvana · 3 months ago

Text

Chapter two | Under Gotham’s Shadow.

masterlist

pairing : battinson!bruce wayne x fem!oc.

words : +7k.

author’s note : The second chapter is here! Just a reminder that English isn't my first language, so if there are any mistakes, I apologize in advance. We're meeting a lot of new characters in this chapter, so I hope everything makes sense. If anything is unclear, feel free to ask questions!

cw : bruce being a dick as usual, 18+, thriller, medical procedures, angst, mental health issues, noire, canon-typical violence, POV alternating, gritty, horror, illness, slow burn, action, fluff, mutual pining, forced proximity, crime families, comedy, crime, fighting ect… read at your own risk !

AFTER LEAVING the mayor's house, Maryam reluctantly approached her car.

Sliding into the driver's seat, she finally allowed herself a moment to breathe. She leaned forward, pressing her forehead against the steering wheel, shutting out the chaotic world outside. The muffled sounds of journalists shouting questions and the wail of police sirens barely registered as she tried to process the night's events.

Her mind replayed the grim scenes in a loop— the mayor’s lifeless body, the blood, the devastation in young George’s eyes. It was a deliberate murder, no doubt about it, and something deep inside told her this wouldn't be the last. A shiver ran down her spine as she pondered the motives behind the killing. Why target the mayor? She didn't know him personally and, to be honest, barely cared about the man. His face was familiar, but only in the way that all politicians’ faces are—seen, not truly known. Despite keeping up with politics, she could hardly recall anything of substance that he'd done for Gotham.

Sure, he’d put Salvatore Maroni behind bars, but Maryam suspected he was just another cog in the Falcone family's machine. Who in Gotham wasn’t at this point? The city was still in shambles, with criminals running rampant, homelessness skyrocketing, and the gap between the rich and poor only growing wider. Every promise the mayor made during his campaign had turned out to be empty words, nothing but lies wrapped in false hope.

Everything was a mess.

Yet, despite her cynicism, she found herself more worried about George than the murdered politician. The boy was innocent, a child who had nothing to do with the murky underworld of Gotham.

Her aunt had been babysitting him for three years now, and Maryam had often found herself at her aunt’s house, playing with the boy, listening to his innocent laughter. She couldn't help but feel a pang of protectiveness for him.

But what really freaked her out was the vigilante. She had quite literally stumbled upon him, and the memory sent a shiver down her spine.

He was taller than she imagined, his form imposing in a way that felt almost otherworldly. But it was his eyes that haunted her the most—those piercing blue eyes, the bluest she had ever seen. They weren’t just blue; they were the kind of blue that poets of the Renaissance would have wept over, likening them to the tragic skies painted by God himself, sorrowful and burdened with the weight of the world.

His eyes were like a sea under a storm, blue but ringed with red, the color of exhaustion, the remnants of battles fought, and the silent scream of hopelessness written in every shadow. They were the kind of eyes that held the world’s tragedies within them, where hope was a distant, dying light, struggling against the overwhelming tide of despair.

And the way he gripped her—firmly but not forcibly—sent a jolt through her, like a live wire connecting them. It was as if he was afraid of breaking her, as if she were a delicate flower and he was the brutal wind, dangerous and unpredictable, but somehow hesitant to cause harm. It was electrifying. No, it was more than that. It was mortifying. Yes, that was the right word.

The sensation of being held so carefully by something so dangerous—it terrified her.

Another sigh escaped her lips. She had to stop daydreaming, a habit that both gnawed at her and offered comfort in equal measure. But no matter how hard she tried, those blue eyes, full of a sadness she couldn’t comprehend, kept pulling her back into the memory.

Raising her head, Maryam stretched her neck and glanced at the clock in her car. The night had dragged on longer than she realized. She fished her phone from her back pocket, the screen lighting up to reveal a picture of her younger self with her parents and siblings, a bittersweet memory frozen in time. She quickly typed in her password, intending to call her aunt Meysa, but the screen flooded with notifications—several missed calls from her aunt and her siblings. By now, the news must have spread, and they would be worried.

She pressed the call button for her aunt and placed the phone on the dashboard, putting it on speaker. The ringing echoed through the car, the foggy windows a testament to the cold outside. She undid her updo, letting her hair fall, and massaged her scalp as she waited for her aunt to pick up. Finally, the call connected.

“Allo? Maryam, I have been calling you for two hours! You don’t respond to me or your sisters!” Meysa’s voice was thick with worry, not giving Maryam a chance to speak.

“No, I’m fine, Aunt Meysa. I was working—” Maryam started to explain but was cut off again.

“Like always,” Meysa said in Arabic, a tone of gentle reprimand in her voice.

Maryam sighed. “Look, I wanted to call you to ask if you’ve seen the news?”

“Not to ask how your old aunt has been doing?” Meysa teased.

“I literally saw you this morning!” Maryam replied in Arabic, exasperated.

“I know, I know... But yes, I’ve seen the news, although I received it before.”

Maryam furrowed her brows at this. “What do you mean?”

“Rebecca, the Mayor’s wife, called me in tears! I was getting ready for bed when my phone rang,” Meysa explained, then quickly added with a tsk, “She told me her husband was dead! Killed! Can you believe that, yah Maryam?”

Maryam listened, nibbling on her nails and massaging her scalp with her other hand. “Not really, it’s Gotham, have you forgotten?”

“I can’t believe they did that. Killing the Mayor. I never liked him anyway, but the boy? Miskeen, Wallah. I told her to bring him to me so I could take care of him, but she refused. She’s right; it’s better he stays with his mother and family. He must be traumatized.” Meysa continued, brushing off Maryam’s comment.

“I saw him and talked to him—” Maryam began, only to be interrupted again.

“You were there?” Meysa asked, surprised.

“Yep,” Maryam confirmed. “It was a horrible sight. And like I was saying, the boy was really traumatized. I tried to comfort him, but...” She grimaced, shaking her head. “Seeing that kind of thing really messes with your head.”

A heavy silence hung between them.

“You’re right,” Meysa agreed quietly. “I’ll talk to his mother when I can. I don’t want to bother her—God knows how things must be for her right now.”

Maryam only hummed in response, her gaze drifting to the chaos of journalists outside her car.

“What else did you see there?” Meysa asked, hopeful for more information.

“You know I can’t tell you, teta. It’s confidential,” Maryam replied, taking her phone in her hand.

Meysa huffed. “Fine, fine. I suppose I’ll see it in the papers tomorrow.” Then, as if remembering something, she added, “By the way, I made dinner—couscous.”

“Noted. I’m coming to sleep at your apartment then. I’m not working tomorrow morning anyway. I’ll see you later.”

“Okay. Salam, and be careful—or you might run into that satanic devil.” Meysa warned, her tone half-joking.

Maryam laughed, her thoughts flickering briefly to the vigilante. Oh, if only you knew. “Yeah, okay. Bye.”

She ended the call and started the car engine, the rumble breaking the quiet of the early morning. Without another thought, she sped through the empty streets, heading towards her aunt’s apartment.

────୨ৎ────

Bruce removed his helmet with a quiet exhale, the motion slow and deliberate.

The cool air of the cave brushed against his sweat-dampened skin, a stark contrast to the warmth trapped beneath the black armor. As he pulled the helmet free, the shadows lifted from his face, revealing a man who carried the weight of a city’s sins in his eyes. His blackened gaze swept the cavernous space around him, the dim light catching the maining streaks of dark camo that clung to the edges of his eyelids, a haunting reminder of the night he’d just endured.

He reached up, his fingers deftly removing the contact lenses, the tiny sensor bands embedded within reflecting the harsh glow of the monitors around him. The lenses were more than just a tool—they were a gateway to his world, a lens through which he witnessed the darkness that engulfed Gotham. He placed them on the workbench, their curved surfaces still warm from his eyes, before shifting his attention to the grainy video footage playing on the screen.

Nirvana playing on the background; the scene replayed in stark black and white, the distorted image of a gang member convulsing as he was tased in the neck. Bruce’s eyes lingered on the man’s face, reading the fear etched in every twitch of his muscles. He knew that fear well; it was the same fear that had once gripped him as a child, staring into the eyes of the man who had taken everything from him.

He stood, his eyes scanning the vast space of the cave, the eerie silence of early morning settling around him. The remnants of a bygone era surrounded him—an unfinished black muscle car sat hulking in one corner. Monitors lined the walls, their screens flickering with the latest news. The headline that caught his eye made his stomach tighten:

"MAYOR MITCHELL MURDERED."

The newscaster’s voice droned on, filling the cave with words that felt like distant echoes: "...this certainly isn't the first time Gotham has been rocked by the murder of a political figure. In fact, in an eerie coincidence, it was twenty years ago this month that celebrated billionaire philanthropist, Dr. Thomas Wayne, and his wife Martha were slain during Wayne's own mayoral campaign in a shocking crime that remains unsolved to this day..."

Bruce’s gaze hardened, his jaw tightening as the familiar pang of loss surged through him. The past had a cruel way of resurfacing, no matter how deep he buried it.

He sat back, his eyes scanning the footage on the monitor. He paused as the camera caught a glimpse of her—Dr. Maryam Halimi.

Even in the grainy, night-vision footage, she stood out, her presence both captivating and unsettling. Her expressive hazel eyes had been wide with shock when she stumbled upon him, her hair meticulously styled in a French twist updo, a stark contrast to the chaos around her.

There was something about the way she held herself, a blend of poise and vulnerability, that gnawed at him.

Her presence was an unexpected calm amidst the storm of violence and despair.

Bruce leaned in, his gaze sharpening as he studied her features. She had looked at him with those eyes—greenish-yellow, filled with tragedy, hauntingly beautiful, and framed by the weariness of someone who had witnessed far too much yet clung to a fragile hope. A sudden comparison flashed through his mind, almost disorienting: her eyes were like the sky at dusk, desperately holding on to the last traces of daylight before succumbing to the darkness. They were eyes that bore the weight of the world.

He shook his head, trying to dismiss the thought, but it clung to him stubbornly. For a brief moment, he had seen his own torment reflected in her gaze. The deep blue of his eyes, like a painting etched in sorrow, had found a mirror in hers. It was a gaze that spoke of shared suffering, even if she was unaware of it.

Bruce replayed the scene, his heart rate subtly rising as he relived the moment she had stumbled upon him. He hadn’t expected her to be there, and the way she had frozen, her eyes widening in shock, had left an indelible mark on him.

He captured her image on one of his computer screens, letting it linger there before switching to another monitor to continue reviewing the footage.

A metallic clank echoed through the cave, pulling Bruce’s attention away from the screen. He looked up to see Alfred stepping out of the freight elevator, his figure cast in the half-light. The older man’s face, etched with years of wear and scars of a different kind, was a picture of quiet concern.

Bruce turned back to his work, avoiding Alfred’s gaze, but the tension between them lingered in the air like a ghost.

“I assume you heard about this...?” Alfred’s voice was low, tinged with the weary resignation of a man who had seen too much.

“Yeah,” Bruce replied, his tone clipped, eyes fixed on the footage he was fast-forwarding through—frame by frame, dissecting every moment of the crime scene.

Alfred moved closer, his steps echoing softly on the stone floor. He glanced at the screen, his eyes widening at the sight of Mayor Mitchell’s body. “Oh. I see...” His voice faltered as he took in the gruesome scene. “...dear God...”

As the image of the cipher filled the screen, Bruce froze the frame, his hand reaching to print the image. The lines of the eerie symbols etched into the Halloween card were now stark on the paper. Alfred’s breath hitched as he took in the sight, the chill of the moment settling deep into his bones.

“The killer left this for Batman?” Alfred’s voice trembled slightly, betraying the fear he kept carefully masked.

“Apparently.” Bruce’s reply was curt, as if discussing a minor inconvenience rather than a message from a murderer.

Alfred’s eyes narrowed with concern. “You’re becoming quite a celebrity... why is he writing to you?”

“I don’t know yet.” Bruce’s voice was flat, betraying nothing of the storm brewing inside him.

"And her?" Alfred gestured toward the computer screen where Maryam’s face was paused, captured in the moment their eyes had locked. Bruce hesitated, his gaze briefly shifting to the screen as Alfred studied the image.

"Does she have any link to what happened—"

"No," Bruce cut him off sharply, his tone leaving no room for further questioning.

"She’s pretty," Alfred murmured, his voice softening as a small smile tugged at his lips. "Quite a striking woman, if I may add. Or was it the way you scared her?"

Bruce's jaw clenched, his eyes narrowing. "She seemed familiar."

Alfred glanced at him, curiosity piqued. "Do you know her?"

Bruce shook his head, his voice distant, as though reaching back into a memory just out of grasp. "I asked Gordon about her. He said she's a pathologist. Medical examiner. Her name is Dr. Maryam Halimi." His gaze lingered on her face for a moment before he returned to the other screen, burying himself in the work that never seemed to end.

A heavy silence settled between them, the only sound the hum of machinery in the background. Alfred sighed, running a hand through his hair, trying to weigh the gravity of the situation against Bruce's relentless pursuit of justice.

"Have a shower," Alfred finally said, his voice carrying a hint of weariness. "The accounting boys from Wayne Enterprises are coming for breakfast."

"Here—why?" Bruce asked, irritation flickering in his eyes, a reminder of the ever-present tension between his two worlds.

"Because I couldn’t get you to go there!" Alfred retorted, frustration seeping into his voice as he met Bruce's gaze, the unspoken concern between them thickening the air.

“I don’t have time for this,” Bruce muttered, his own patience wearing thin.

Alfred’s voice softened, a plea underlying his words. “It’s getting serious, Bruce. If this continues, it won’t be long before you’ve nothing left—”

“I don’t care about that. Any of that.” Bruce’s words were sharp, final, cutting through the space between them like a knife.

Alfred’s eyes flickered with a pain that he quickly masked. “You don’t care about your family’s legacy?”

“What I’m doing is my family’s legacy,” Bruce countered, his voice low, edged with a conviction that left no room for doubt. “And if I can’t change things here, if I can’t have an effect, then I don’t care what happens to me.”

Alfred swallowed hard, his throat tight with unshed emotions. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

Bruce's eyes darkened, his voice dropping to a warning. “Alfred, stop.” The words hung in the air, sharp and final. Then, without missing a beat, he added, “You’re not my father.”

The statement was cold, a barrier thrown up between them, meant to shut down the conversation. The silence that followed was heavy, charged with the weight of everything unsaid. Alfred’s expression faltered, the faintest trace of hurt flashing across his face before he masked it with a resigned nod.

But the words lingered, echoing in the cavernous space of the Batcave, a reminder of the chasm that sometimes seemed too wide to bridge between them.

A thin, pained smile touched Alfred’s lips, barely masking the hurt behind his eyes. “I’m... well aware,” he replied quietly, his voice tinged with a sadness that Bruce chose to ignore.

Alfred’s eyes lingered on Bruce for a moment longer, searching for something—some sign of acknowledgment, a crack in the armor. But Bruce remained impassive, his gaze already drifting back to the screens, to the work that consumed him.

Bruce rose from his seat, the movement deliberate and final, signaling the end of the conversation. Alfred watched him go, a deep pain etched in his expression, the kind that comes from years of unspoken worries and unresolved conflicts.

The distance between them felt wider than ever, a gulf that no words could bridge.

As Bruce disappeared into the elevator, Alfred turned back to the computer, his gaze lingering on the screens Bruce had been working on. His eyes scanned the thumbnails from the lens footage, pausing on one that showed the boy in the ninja costume with Maryam crouched in front of him, trying to comfort the little boy. His heart clenched at the sight; the tenderness in her gesture stood out sharply against the brutality surrounding them, a small but significant act of humanity in a city drowning in darkness.

His gaze then drifted to the printed cipher lying on the desk, the eerie symbols from the Halloween card glaring up at him. Above them, in Bruce's sharp handwriting, were the words: "HE LIES STILL."

Alfred frowned, the weight of those words pressing down on him like a heavy shroud. He knew the dangers Bruce was courting, the dark path he was walking. But seeing those words, seeing the connection between the message and Bruce’s relentless pursuit of justice, filled him with a deep sense of dread. It was as if the very essence of Bruce's mission was encapsulated in that ominous phrase—a mission that seemed to be consuming him more each day.

Alfred let out a weary sigh and closed his eyes, the heaviness of the situation settling over him. The fear of what it might do to Bruce weighed heavily on his heart.

────୨ৎ────

Maryam stirred awake, the faint sound of voices and the clattering of dishes drawing her from sleep.

The room she found herself in was familiar, though now it bore the quiet solitude of the morning. This was the place she once shared with her younger sister Sherine during their teenage years—a space that had seen countless late-night conversations, whispered secrets and shared dreams. It wasn’t vast, just big enough to comfortably house two people.

The furniture was modest, with a couple of beds positioned against the walls, each adorned with mismatched bedsheets that reflected the distinct personalities of the two sisters.

A shared wooden dresser stood between them, and a small desk, once a place for late-night study sessions or scribbled notes passed between them, sat against the wall, bearing the marks of years gone by.

The room had a comforting, lived-in feel, with soft, warm colors that reflected the coziness of their aunt's home. The sunlight filtered through the curtains, casting gentle rays that danced on the patterned rug. A few framed pictures adorned the walls—memories of family gatherings and happier times.

Maryam rubbed her eyes, still groggy, and reached for her phone on the nightstand. The screen flashed to life, showing the time: 10:36 a.m.

She sighed, stretching her arms above her head, and then rolled out of bed. Her face was slightly puffy from sleep, and her hair, which had been washed the night before, had settled into bouncy curls that framed her bare face.

Yawning, she reached for her red robe, slipping it on and tying it snugly at the waist. The soft fabric provided a small comfort against the coolness of the morning. Shielding her eyes from the sunlight that streamed through the window, she made her way to the door.

As she entered the hallway, the sounds of life became more pronounced—familiar voices mingled with the clinking of dishes, the occasional clatter of cutlery, and the unmistakable melody of Um Kulthum filling the apartment.

The closer she got to the kitchen, the stronger the scent of coffee became, warm and inviting. It was a smell that always made her feel at home, no matter what else was happening in the world outside.

In the kitchen, her Aunt Meysa was on the phone, a foulard wrapped like a turban on her head and her usual apron draped over her jelaba. She was speaking loudly, gesturing with such vigor that it was as if the person on the other end could actually see her. The mix of broken English and Arabic in her voice was unmistakable.

"No, no, we take no more kids tonight! Already full!" She rolled her eyes with dramatic flair, as if the person she was speaking to was as thick-headed as the fog that sometimes rolled in from Gotham Bay.

At the small table, Aunt Jamila sat, the embodiment of calm despite the tumultuous life she’d endured. A cigarette was nestled between her fingers, a cup of coffee steaming in front of her. Her black hair was tied back, and her sharp yet warm brown eyes were fixated on the newspaper spread out before her.

Maryam paused, blinking in surprise. Aunt Mila never read the paper. The last time she’d seen her aunt with a newspaper, it had been crumpled up to light the fireplace.

Strange, she thought.

“Well, well, look who finally decided to grace us with her presence,” teased Moncef, her cousin, a few years younger and always up to something.

He was Aunt Meysa and Uncle Fawzi's only son, a boxer who owned a gym in Gotham, both training and fighting in the ring.

Maryam, unfazed by his usual teasing, just rolled her eyes and ignored him.

Rania, the fourth Halimi sister, was hunched over her laptop at the table. Her dirty blonde curls were pulled into a messy bun, held together by a pencil, and an earpiece was tucked into one ear. Her fingers flew over the keyboard, completely immersed in work for Bella Reál’s mayoral campaign.

Yesterday's fiasco had thrown her into overdrive, and she barely noticed the world around her.

At the far end of the table sat Warda, the second-born daughter. An engineer at Wayne Enterprises currently on maternity leave, had one hand resting gently on her rounded belly.

She was the only married sister out of the five, wed to a man named Ryan, a dentist. Despite the exhaustion that often accompanied pregnancy, Warda looked as radiant as ever.

Her dark hair, straightened and perfectly styled, brushed her shoulders as she leaned in to spread marmalade on her toast.

When Moncef made his remark, she glanced up, a warm smile spreading across her lips. “Sbah al khir, sbah al noor yah Milou,” she greeted, using one of Maryam’s many nicknames.

Maryam, stretching again to shake off the morning sluggishness, walked over and planted a small kiss on Warda’s head. Warda returned the affection with a tender smile before taking a bite of her tartine. Maryam moved to the counter, tugging her robe tighter around her waist as she poured herself a cup of coffee—milk and three sugars, her usual.

Meanwhile, Moncef, ever the joker, threw a few playful jabs in her direction as she poured the coffee. Maryam, long accustomed to his antics, didn’t even flinch.

Noticing the empty chair at the table, Maryam smirked to herself. The youngest sister, Alma—affectionately known as Lulu—was still in bed.

Typical, she thought. Lulu, the baby of the family, was probably the only one who could sleep through the chaos.

Maryam turned her attention to Aunt Mila, who hadn’t lifted her eyes from the newspaper. “Since when do you read the news, hmm?” she asked, raising one of her perfectly sculpted eyebrows as she sipped from her mug.

Amina took a slow drag from her cigarette, her gaze still fixed on the paper. “Why wouldn’t I? The mayor’s dead. That’s big news.”

Maryam chuckled, turning back to the counter. She put her mug down and opened a drawer, rummaging through it for her favorite biscuits. “I’ve never seen you read the paper,” she said, her tone light.

Finally finding the biscuits, she tore the pack open with her teeth and turned back towards the table. “Actually, I’ve only ever seen you light fires with it.” She shot a sideways glance at Rania, who grinned without looking up from her laptop.

Amina sighed, finally folding the newspaper and meeting Maryam’s gaze. “Well, times change, and so do people, ya benti,” she said, the hint of a smirk tugging at her lips. “Even I, need to keep up with what’s happening in this madhouse of a city.”

Warda, still chewing her tartine, chimed in with a soft, teasing voice. “Oh, Maryam knows. She was at the crime scene last night.”

Moncef’s eyes widened as he snatched the newspaper from Amina’s hands, dodging her half-hearted attempt to pinch him. “You were?” he exclaimed, scanning the headlines.

Maryam rolled her eyes playfully, leaning back against the counter. “Thanks for the reminder, Warda. Like I needed it,” she quipped, though the corners of her mouth twitched into a small smile.

Moncef, still clutching the newspaper, leaned forward with curiosity. “So, what did you see? Give me the juicy details.”

Maryam shot him a look, already feeling her patience thin. “Moncef, how many times do I have to say it? I can’t tell you. It’s against the rules.” Her eyes widened to emphasize her words. “Besides, I woke up to Sherine hounding me for more info for her papers, and I still refused.”

Ali threw the newspaper at Maryam, but she dodged it with practiced ease.

Meysa, still on the phone, caught the exchange and snapped at her son, “Moncef, stop bothering your cousin! Go find something else to do.”

Ali grimaced and backed off. “Fine, fine. Just trying to get some interesting gossip.”

Maryam stuck her tongue out at him in mock defiance, earning a bemused look from Ali.

“So, what does everyone want for dinner?” Meysa asked, finally hanging up the phone. “I’m thinking Mloukhiah.”

Moncef chimed in, “I don’t know, Baba’s off to work at the bay until tonight, even though I told him not to go. The weather’s awful.”

Meysa scoffed. “Your father is as stubborn as a mule. Out there, getting drenched while Gotham spirals into chaos. What’s next? A gang of criminals taking over Wayne Enterprises?”

Maryam chuckled, her mind still partially occupied with the crime scene. “It’s Gotham, Meysa. Anything’s possible.”

Rania, finally looking up from her laptop, wore a serious expression. “The conspiracy theories are spiraling out of control. This is going to be a nightmare for Bella’s campaign. Every scandal just adds more fuel to the fire.”

Maryam leaned back against the counter with a smirk. “Welcome to my world, Rania. Looks like you’re becoming Maryam 2.0.”

Rania narrowed her eyes at her sister but couldn’t hide a smile. “Oh, please. I’m still young. Don’t age me prematurely.”

“Too late,” Maryam shot back with a laugh. “You’re already showing signs of stress. Look at those bags under your eyes.”

Rania leaned in closer with a smirk. “Ha! You’re one to talk. Your workaholic tendencies could turn anyone into an early retiree.”

“Maybe,” Maryam conceded with a grin, “but at least I’m not glued to a laptop 24/7.”

“Not glued, just constantly engaged,” Rania retorted with a cheeky smile.

Warda, ever the peacemaker, chimed in with a gentle smile. “Let’s not turn this into a competition over who’s the bigger workaholic. We all have our issues.” She glanced down at her round belly and stroked it lovingly. “Some of us just have different priorities.”

Meysa, always the doting aunt, leaned over and added, “Eat, Warda. You’re not eating enough for a pregnant woman. I don’t want my grandchild to be hungry.”

Warda quipped back, “I’m fine, Aunt Meysa. Don’t worry, my husband is feeding me enough.”

At that moment, Alma, the youngest Halimi sister nicknamed Lulu, stumbled into the kitchen. Her auburn, almost red hair was a mess of curls, and her eyes were half-closed as if she’d just been dragged from a deep sleep. “What’s going on? Why’s everyone so loud?”

Warda greeted Lulu with a warm smile. “Welcome to the land of the living, Lulu.”

Lulu took the coffee cup gratefully and sat down at the table. “I’m still half-asleep. What’s everyone talking about?”

“The mayor’s dead,” Jamila said matter-of-factly, lighting another cigarette.

Lulu’s eyes widened in shock, nearly spilling her coffee. “Wait, what? When did that happen?”

“Last night,” Maryam replied, watching her sister’s reaction with a concerned look. “It’s all over the news.”

Rania snorted and returned to her laptop. “Trust me, you’re not missing much. Just more chaos.”

Aunt Jamila exhaled a stream of smoke, her eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “Chaos or not, this city’s going to hell. We’ve got to be careful. All of us.”

Warda nodded, her hand resting on her belly as she considered Amina’s words. “Yeah, we do. But we’ve survived worse, right?”

The room fell into a contemplative silence. They had indeed survived worse.

Breaking the silence, Maryam asked Lulu, “Where were you, anyway?”

Lulu groaned, leaning back in her chair. “Revising my bar exam.” She avoided eye contact with Maryam, her unease palpable.

“Really?” Maryam asked suspiciously, crossing her arms and frowning.

“Yep.” At this point, everyone stopped what they were doing and focused on Lulu, sensing the tension in the air.

With all eyes on her, Lulu finally exploded. “Okay, fine! I did go to revise, but then I went on a date with a guy!”

Jamila, crushing her cigarette in the ashtray, said, “See? Wasn’t that hard.”

“What guy?” Moncef asked, his tone protective.

“Yeah, well, I’m not going to tell you his name. I’m not even sure if it’s serious,” Lulu said, trying to deflect.

“Well, is he hot at least?” Rania asked with a mischievous grin.

“What do you mean ‘hot’?” asked Aunt Meysa, looking puzzled. “Is he sick or something?”

“No, Meysa,” Aunt Jamila clarified, “she’s asking if the boy is handsome.”

Maryam said nothing, but her gaze fixed on her sister, already forming suspicions about who the new guy might be. She hoped to god it wasn’t who she had in mind.

“Yaani, oh my god, it’s my life. I’m 26! Leave me alone!” Alma snapped suddenly, throwing her spoon onto the table and storming off to the bathroom.

Ali raised his arms in mock surrender. “I have to go open the ring anyway. Salam!” He left the kitchen, grabbing his energy drink on the way.

Seizing the opportunity to escape, Rania pushed back her chair, shutting her laptop with a decisive click. “Yeah, me too. I’m heading to the office. The team needs me.” She grabbed her bag and called after Moncef, “Can you please drive me?!”

“Be careful,” Warda called out, but the only response was the door slamming shut.

Maryam emptied her coffee into the sink, quickly washed her cup, and left the kitchen.

Aunt Jamila called after her, “Don’t make her even more mad!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Maryam responded with a wave, already heading out the door.

────୨ৎ────

Maryam leaned against the bathroom doorframe, crossing her arms and giving her sister a stern look as Lulu brushed her teeth. “Please tell me it’s not who I think it is.”

Lulu leaned over to spit out the toothpaste, avoiding Maryam’s gaze. “Oh god, it is,” Maryam muttered, beginning to pace anxiously. Her fingers pressed against her temples. “Vittorio Falcone. Of all people—”

Alma quickly placed her hand over Maryam’s mouth, her eyes wide with alarm. “Keep your voice down!”

Maryam lowered her hands, her frustration palpable. “Can you blame me, Alma?” she said, using her full name to emphasize her annoyance. “You promised me you wouldn’t talk to him—”

“He kept insisting, Maryam!” Lulu cut in, placing her hands on the counter. “Sending me flowers, gifts, waiting outside uni and work—”

“And I warned you!” Maryam’s voice rose. “I said you’d be tempted by him and his charms! Ever since that night at the restaurant, and the way he looked at you while you worked! He knows what he’s doing; he’s playing you—”

“Maryam, he’s not that bad when you get to know him—”

“He’s part of the fucking mafia, be for real right now!” Maryam exclaimed, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “And not just any member—he’s the oldest son of Carmine Falcone!” She lowered her voice further. “The literal heir to the Roman throne.”

Alma shook her head, dismissing Maryam’s concerns. “You’re being dramatic.”

“Lulu,” Maryam said, taking her sister’s shoulders, “please don’t be fooled by them. I know them, I’ve worked near them. They’re dangerous.”

“I talked with him,” Alma said, though Maryam continued to shake her head. “We’re just friends. He says he’s going to make everything legitimate when he takes the reins, which he already has and has started doing some changes!” she explained, her tone pleading.

“Doesn’t matter,” Maryam said firmly. “He’s still dangerous. And you’re not even Italian. Why would he want to go out with you? It’s just so strange.”

“I’m not an idiot,” Alma said suddenly, her tone serious. “I know who he is, but all I ask is for you to trust me on this.” She absentmindedly played with a strand of her red hair. “We’re not together; if anything, I just went on that date with him so he’d stop pestering me. It’s nothing serious, really.”

“Look, I know he’s handsome and charming or whatever, but it’s not like in the movies. Please—” Maryam started, but Alma cut her off.

“I know what I’m doing, Mar. I’m not a baby anymore, and you know that.” Alma began to gently push Maryam out of the bathroom. “Don’t worry about me. Really.” With that, she pushed the door shut and locked it, leaving Maryam outside, bewildered and even more worried.

She leaned against the wall, her shoulders slumped as she tried to steady her breathing.

Maryam felt a pang of helplessness—she had always been the protector, the one who stepped in when things went wrong. But here, with Alma’s stubborn defiance, she was powerless.

The thought of Vittorio Falcone, the heir to one of Gotham’s most feared crime families, being involved with her sister was unsettling.

Her pulse quickened as she imagined the worst-case scenarios: Alma being used, manipulated, or worse. The danger was all too real, and Maryam’s protective instincts flared up with a fierce intensity. She remembered her own experiences with the criminal underworld, the threats and violence she had witnessed, that she had endured.

It was a world that left scars—both physical and emotional—and she couldn’t bear the thought of her sister being dragged into it.

Maryam’s fingers gripped the edge of the door poignet, her knuckles white with tension. She fought to push down the rising wave of anger and fear that threatened to overwhelm her. She understood Alma’s need for independence and the desire to make her own choices, but the stakes were too high.

Maryam had always been the voice of caution, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that this time, she had failed.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Alma’s footsteps retreating on the other side of the door. Maryam took a deep breath, trying to compose herself. The cacophony of the house��the clinking of dishes, the distant chatter—seemed to amplify her sense of isolation. Her family was moving on with their day, while she remained stuck in this moment of worry and frustration.

Maryam’s heart ached with the weight of her responsibility. She knew she had to find a way to protect Alma without pushing her further away. But for now, she felt powerless, her attempts to safeguard her sister thwarted by the very person she was trying to protect.

With a sigh, Maryam pushed away from the wall and decided to leave the bathroom door.

She needed to refocus, to address the rest of her day, and maybe—just maybe—find another way to keep her sister safe without losing her.

Maryam trudged back into the kitchen, her mood heavy with the weight of the earlier confrontation.

Warda was slowly rising from her chair, preparing to leave. “I have to go back to the house. I promised Ryan we’d go shopping for the baby. He took the day off just for me,” she said, leaning in to kiss her aunts goodbye.

She then turned to Maryam with a knowing look. “Don’t be too hard on her,” she advised softly before grabbing her coat and leaving, her floral perfume lingering in the air.

Aunt Jamila, still sifting through the pile of envelopes, glanced up. “Looks like the Mayor’s wife invited us to the funeral,” she said, holding up a sleek black envelope.

“Oh yes!” Meysa exclaimed, recalling the phone call. “She phoned me this morning and said she wanted us to come.”

Maryam nodded, tying her hair up with a practiced motion, her mind still churning from the argument with Alma. “I’ll be here,” she said, her tone clipped. “But I’ve got work. I’m heading back to my apartment, and then I’m off to meet Gordon for lunch.”

Aunt Mila gave her a once-over, her keen eyes noticing the tension in Maryam’s posture. “Don’t work yourself up too much,” she advised, her voice carrying a mix of concern and firmness.

“Don’t worry,” Maryam replied, trying to sound reassuring.

But her mind was elsewhere, already dwelling on the tasks ahead.

With that, she turned and made her way to the room where she had slept, intending to change into something more suitable for the day’s events.

────୨ৎ────

After arriving at her apartment just outside the Narrows, Maryam quickly changed out of the clothes she had worn the previous day, opting for something more suitable. She selected a sharp outfit, something that matched her professional demeanor and the gravity of her work.

Heading to the bathroom, she swiftly straightened her hair with an iron, though she didn’t leave it down. Instead, she went for her usual French chignon updo, securing it neatly at the nape of her neck. With practiced ease, she reached for her makeup bag and began her routine: a touch of concealer to brighten her eyes, bronzer to accentuate her tan skin, a quick brush over her eyebrows, a flick of mascara on her lashes, a hint of blush, and finally, her signature red lipstick, which added a bold pop of color to her plump lips.

A spritz of her usual oud perfume added the final touch as she glanced at the time on her phone. Satisfied with her appearance, she slipped on her black high-heeled boots, her long black coat that she secured with the ceinture around her waist, grabbed the dossier she had prepared—complete with the photos and notes from the crime scene—along with her black bag. After ensuring her keys, phone, and wallet were inside, she opened the door of her apartment and stepped out of her apartment.

As Maryam stepped out into the hallway, the familiar sounds of her building greeted her. The muffled cry of a baby echoed from one of the nearby apartments, and somewhere down the corridor, a couple's argument punctuated the otherwise quiet morning. She sighed, tightening her grip on her bag. This was Gotham, after all—a city where peace was always fleeting.

With a quick glance back to ensure her door was securely locked, he began her walk towards the stairwell. The weight of the dossier in her hand was a reminder of the seriousness of her work, pulling her thoughts back to the task at hand. The voices behind her faded as she descended the stairs, the familiar creaks and groans of the old building, along with the click of her high heels, accompanied her steps.

Despite the less-than-ideal living conditions and the constant noise, this place had become a part of her, just like Gotham itself. She thought about her aunts’ constant urging to leave the city, to find a better life somewhere like Metropolis or Central City.

They couldn’t understand why she chose to stay, why she remained in a city that seemed to chew people up and spit them out.

But Maryam knew. Gotham was in her blood. It was a city that had shaped her, toughened her, and no matter how dark it got, she couldn’t bring herself to leave. She often joked that if she worked anywhere else, she'd probably die of boredom.

Here, every day was a new challenge, a new puzzle to solve, and as much as the chaos drained her, it also fueled her.

Her salary might not reflect the work she put in—the long hours, the emotional toll—but money wasn’t what drove her. It was the people, the ones who needed her, and the small victories that kept her going.

Each time she uncovered the truth behind a death or brought a criminal one step closer to justice, she felt a sense of purpose that was worth more than any paycheck.

As she reached the ground floor and pushed open the heavy door leading outside, the cold air hit her face, sharp and bracing. She squared her shoulders, letting the door swing shut behind her as she made her way to the subway.

────୨ৎ────

The diner was a relic from a bygone era, its faded charm unmistakable despite the wear and tear.

The once-vibrant red booths had lost their luster, now marred by cracks and scuffs. The linoleum floor, a worn pattern of black and white squares, squeaked with every step. Old-fashioned pendant lights cast a soft, yellowish glow over the space, creating an ambiance that was both cozy and antiquated.

The walls were adorned with vintage photographs and a few outdated advertisements, giving the place an air of nostalgia. A jukebox in the corner remained dormant, its music silenced by the passing years.

Inside, a handful of patrons sat scattered across the booths and tables—some reading newspapers, others engaged in quiet conversations. The air was filled with the aroma of coffee and the faint scent of cleaning products, a mix that added to the diner’s homey but slightly worn-out atmosphere.

Maryam spotted Gordon seated in a booth near the window, absently stirring a coffee. He looked up as she approached, a warm smile spreading across his face.

“Maryam, right on time,” he greeted, standing up to kiss her cheek. “I’ve already ordered your usual—Diabolo mint.”

Maryam returned his smile and slid into the booth across from him, her black high-heeled boots clicking on the floor as she settled in.

“Thanks, Jim. My aunt sent over some cakes for Barbara,” she said, handing him a small box. “She thought Barbara might enjoy them.”

Gordon’s smile widened as he accepted the box. “I’m sure she will. She’s always been a fan of your aunt’s baking.”

Maryam nodded, pulling out the dossier from her bag and placing it on the table, her expression serious.

“I’ve compiled everything from the crime scene—photos, notes, and the autopsy details,” she said. “There’s a lot to go through, but I’ve highlighted the key points.”

She leaned in slightly, her voice steady. “The pattern suggests a personal motive. I’m leaning towards someone with a clear objective, possibly targeting specific individuals.”

Gordon listened intently, his brow furrowed in thought. “And you think this might be just the beginning?”

Maryam’s gaze was unwavering. “Yes, I’m afraid so. The killer seems to have a goal in mind, and if my analysis is correct, this could be part of a larger plan.”

Gordon nodded thoughtfully. “Now that you're suggesting it, I’ve been hearing some unsettling whispers about potential future targets.”

He took a sip of his coffee, the weight of the situation evident in his tone. “Anything else?”

Maryam sighed, leaning back in her seat. “Yes, my aunts and I were invited to the mayor’s funeral. I think it’s important to be there, considering everything.”

As she spoke, the TV mounted on the diner’s wall flashed news coverage of the murder, catching both their attention for a brief moment.

Gordon glanced at the screen, then back at Maryam. “It seems the night of the murder is still making headlines.”

Maryam huffed, a hint of frustration in her voice. “Well, the Mayor’s dead—it’s kind of a big thing.” She took a sip of her Diabolo mint before adding, “It’s all over social media. My sister Rania, you know her—dark blonde hair,” she gestured to her own hair, “she works comms and public affairs for Bella Real’s campaign.”

Gordon hummed in acknowledgment. “Yeah, I remember.”

“Well, it’s been hell since yesterday night,” Maryam said, her tone weary.

Gordon nodded, taking another sip of his coffee. “Man, tell me about it. The whole city’s on edge.”

They shared a moment of silence, the gravity of the situation settling in. The TV continued its coverage, but their focus remained on the task ahead.

“Anyways, anything new from the Bat about the case?” Maryam asked, a note of hope in her voice as she tried to pry any information from Gordon.

Gordon chuckled softly, a knowing glint in his eyes. “Well, you certainly made quite an impression on him, that’s for sure—”

Maryam cut him off, blushing slightly. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Gordon shrugged, a teasing smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he adjusted his glasses. “But seriously, no, I haven’t heard anything from him since last night.”

Maryam mumbled under her breath, “Probably rotting in his cave.”

Before Gordon could respond, his phone rang, the screen displaying an unknown number. He answered it with a hint of skepticism, holding the phone to his ear as he listened intently.

Maryam took a sip of her Diabolo mint, waiting patiently for the call to end.

After a few minutes, Gordon hung up and looked at Maryam, a hint of intrigue in his expression. “That was him.”

Maryam’s eyes widened slightly in surprise. “Oh, really?”

Gordon nodded. “Yeah. I’ve gotta go, but I’ll make sure to keep you informed.”

“Of course, don’t hesitate to call,” Maryam replied, watching as he stood up and placed some money on the table.

Gordon offered her a nod. “Take care, Maryam. I’ll see you around.”

She watched him leave the diner, heading toward his car, the weight of the situation lingering in the air as she finished her drink.

previous chapter (chapter one) | next chapter

Halimi Family

Parents :

Idris Halimi (the father, deceased)

Anastasia Nikolaevna (the mother, deceased)

The sisters :

Maryam Halimi (the oldest) — 30, doctor, medical examiner.

Warda Halimi (second born) — 29, Engineer at Wayne Enterprises.

Sherine Halimi (third born) — 28, Journalist

Rania Halimi (fourth) — 27, Comms and public affairs for Bella Real Campaign.

Alma Halimi (youngest) — 26, Law student

Paternal aunts :

Meysa (Halimi) Saeed

Jamila Halimi, nurse

Paternal Uncle :

• Fawzi Saeed (husband of Meysa), fisherman

Paternal Cousins :

Moncef Saeed (son of Amir and Meysa), owner of a Boxing Ring in Gotham.

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tansyuduri · 4 months ago

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We Are Bruised But Whole Together

Arthur wakes up in modern Glastonbury and to his unfathomable relief finds Merlin. But nothing is simple. Everything he knew is gone, for one. He wonders what of his achievements were actually his own, and not just Merlin's magic, for another. Arthur also has to face the fact that he kept the ban on magic going. Was he ever truly a good king?

There is also the “I love you” he mouthed to Merlin before dying. Something he cannot afford to focus on, because, as Merlin tells him, Albion’s time of greatest need is upon them.

Then comes the unthinkable. Merlin’s magic, which has been growing over the last thousand years, is suddenly too strong for the sorcerer's human body to handle. Faced with the prospect of losing Merlin, feelings suddenly come out and Arthur realizes that if he can save the man he loves and the land of Albion, he might be able to forgive himself for his mistakes and everything he is not.

The question is, can he?

Expect fluff, angst, humor, banter, hurt/comfort, whump, and lots of Merthur!

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Merlin held Arthur as the sun began to set. He rubbed a hand up and down the other man’s back as Arthur gripped him tightly. He could hear Arthur slowly working to pull himself together.

Finally, Merlin heard a whisper.

“Sorry.”

“You’re apologizing to me?” Merlin said incredulously. “For having emotions?”

Arthur raised his head slowly, letting go of Merlin. “Seems so.”

Merlin could not let that stand.

“Of all the… Arthur, don’t you dare try to apologize to me for crying after learning what you did just now,” Merlin told him. “Don’t you dare. You emotionally repressed, impossible, dollophead of a king! Don’t you dare apologize for being human.”

Arthur met Merlin’s gaze with his red-rimmed blue eyes slightly wide. Then a smile started to grow on his face. “You still can’t address me like that.”

“What? The dollophead bit? Or the emotionally repressed, impossible, idiot bit?” Merlin crossed his arms.

“Both… Wait, did you just add ‘idiot’ to the insults, Merlin?”

“Yes. Seems I did. Problem, Your Majesty? ”

Merlin saw Arthur open his mouth to retort, then let out a slight laugh and shake his head. “I’m glad you didn’t change, Merlin.”

---------------------------------------------------------------------------- Art By @gyrhs Army of Betas: Sleepygecko, Joyale, Anne Exception, vandalyssm, Sage_Owl, Loki_Lover_1234, @kadenemrys ____________________________________________________________

Read it and It's Sequal on A03 HERE

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ellesthots · 5 months ago

Text

Fateful Beginnings

IX. “goodbye, Gotham”

parts: previous / next

plot: when the flooding recedes, Mr. Wayne helps you leave the city—but not before a sufficient olive branch.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, mention of chemo, playful banter/teasing

words: 2.9k

Bruce looked over with a heavy scoff, and you bristled. Before he could react you continued. "Alfred is kind, and thoughtful, and obviously helps you because you were calling out to him again and again." This elicited an immediate response.

"Don't tell me about Alfred." He spoke through gritted teeth, the color coming back to his face with red heat. You wanted to step away but swallowed the lump in your throat. Alfred says he's so compassionate, huh? Doesn't seem like it. "You don't have to keep up this tough guy facade, you know."

His sarcastic laugh boomed in the hallways and you could've sworn you heard Alfred wake up. "Facade. Big words."

"Dick!" You turned on your heel and stomped up the stairs, then heard a low sigh. "I'm sorry." He spoke. You didn't turn to look at him; it was triggering hearing a man mock you so openly, especially in his own home. Being a vigilante billionaire didn't absolve him from being a human being. "That's not fair fighting, and I didn't mean to imply—"

"That I'm some mousey, stupid woman?" You whipped back around, all but hissing at him. He met your eyes carefully from the bottom of the stairwell. He gave a small nod, looking smaller now. "Nothing like that. I apologize." His swift recognition of wrongdoing did make it sting a bit less, and you had to remind yourself you were essentially camping out at his place. You leaned against the top railing, staring down at the masses of brown marble flooring. The moment felt just tender enough for honesty. "You can be scary, Bruce.... Wayne." You hovered on his last name, hoping it might act as an olive branch.

Bruce didn't want to be scary. Sure, to criminals he wanted to be, but hearing you say he brought it home hurt. It sank into his chest a bit like a branding iron. He didn't like hearing you say his last name; it already felt foreign in your voice. He looked over at the puddles of water he dragged in and shifted the convo. "The flooding seems to be letting up. You'll be able to get back to your apartment soon."

You took that more personally than was necessary. A thought glued to you. "Wait, will I be able to see Alfred again?" You felt ridiculous as soon as you said it, knowing you were about to graduate and move across the country permanently. You wanted out of this city more than anything in the entire world. Now you were concerned about missing a random old guy? You walked over to the top of the stairwell and sat crosslegged, putting your head in your hands. Bruce shifted uncomfortably, not knowing quite what to say to you, and wondering why the hell you'd decided to sit with him on the stairs. You assumed he wasn't going to respond to the Alfred comment, and you didn't really want him to. You thought about how Alfred had said Bruce was worried during your reaction and decided to pay it forward. It took a lot more effort to verbalize than you thought. "Do you want any pain meds or anything?"

It felt like a breeze shot through Bruce's stomach. A weird rippling sensation. His leg was burning in pain and he wanted to say no, he needed to say no, he wouldn't accept help from you... except seeing you with your guard down was... pleasant? If he forgot you were about to expose him, which he immediately remembered. His momentary lapse in annoyance ended with his next comment. "Are you still going to expose me?" You didn't say anything, and after about thirty seconds of silence he looked up at you. You slowly and discreetly shook your head. "No."

Bruce cleared his throat, trying to hide his relief. "I'm good on meds, yeah." He slowly rose from the stair and limped his way up. It was more bearable now that his body was lit up and electric—you weren't going to tell anyone? He wanted to trust you, it sounded genuine, this felt genuine, and usually he could trust his read of a situation... but it was you. You were different than everyone else. You'd noticed him immediately. It didn't even take a full second for years of practiced concealment and tracking two separate identities to fall apart. You scared him, too.

You stepped aside as he rose to the top of the stairwell. He looked at you from his periphery and gave a small nod. "Night." His voice was raspy and quiet, and then the only other sounds were of boots against ground and your own heels as you padded back to Alfred's office. The next half hour you whizzed through the formatting, scheduling an email for a few hours later to Dr. Vry. You got ahead of her disappointment by writing:

Good morning Dr. Vry, I hope this email finds you well. Unfortunately Mr. Wayne rescinded his offer mid-interview, so I interviewed someone else. The paper is attached below. My sincerest apologies, and thank you again for getting me the journalism materials. They will be returned swiftly in the AM. If you would like confirmation that I did meet with Mr. Wayne I can put you in contact with his manager. Best, Y/N Y/L/N.

Sleep was hardly restful. You tossed and turned the next few hours, wired from finally turning in the last paper for your degree. You'd received an email back at 8:49am, where Dr. Vry expressed deep regret at your lack of follow-through on what would have been Bruce Wayne's first ever interview:

Ms. Y/L/N, thank you for turning in your paper. However, it would be remiss to not acknowledge my disappointment at what would have been such a spectacular frontier in journalism. I look forward to hearing from Wayne management to confirm your meeting. Regards, Dr. Janay Vry.

Fuck. Now you had to elicit Alfred to send a 'sorry' email. You sat up in bed, promptly hearing a strong knock. "Can I come in?" It was Bruce. You hurried your greasy hair back into a ponytail with a rubber band you'd found and sat expectantly on the edge of the bed. "Yes?" In walked Bruce, presumably fresh from a shower. He had your phone in-hand. Your brow furrowed. He nodded in anticipation. "You left it in Alfred's study. He's making breakfast now. No peaches." Bruce paused, avoiding eye contact. "Uh, and he wanted to tell you the flooding has died down enough to drive you back to your apartment." He tossed your phone to you and nodded before shutting the door. You sat, feeling the rage of hunger in your stomach. The first thing you did was look for flights back home: there was one from Gotham to Seattle at 11:45am, a five hour direct. With the time difference you might be able to make your mother's chemo appointment. Tentatively, you booked one of the last seats and bolted out to breakfast. It was 9:03. You needed to get home and shove all your belongings back into your luggage.

"Someone had a restful night!" Alfred was cheery, and placed an omelet in front of where you sat yesterday at the table. Bruce was already dished up and sidling into his chair across from you. "The ingredients are only egg, green and red bell pepper, spinach, olive oil, salt, and pepper. All good?" You gave him two thumbs up and thanked him, walking over to your side. You felt bad hurrying them. You waited for Alfred to dish himself up and sit down, tucking into a few bites before you broached the question. "I actually booked a flight today, back home. My mom has a uh, thing happening and I needed to be back. Bruce—Mr. Wayne said the flooding had gone down, and I was wondering if I could get a ride back to my apartment."

Bruce side-eyed you when you corrected his name. It still felt weird hearing you say his last name. It was weird hearing you say his first. It was weird that you knew he was Batman. It was just... weird. He finished chewing and gestured to you. "What time's your flight?"

It was unnerving to have such normal conversations with Bruce Wayne. After both your walls had begun to settle the night before, you felt the weight of his reputation. You blushed, and could tell he noticed. "Um, around eleven. Like two hours." Bruce's eyes nearly bulged out of his head "Couldn't have told us sooner?"

Alfred spoke, his face fallen, ignoring the man's antics. "I actually can't this morning, some men from accounting at Wayne Enterprises scheduled an emergency meeting. I'm so sorry. I'm sure Master Wayne can manage, however." He shot a glare at Bruce and Bruce rolled his eyes, starting to tear into his omelet with urgency. "Yeah fine, whatever."

You squeezed your eyes shut tight at feeling like such a burden. The next fifteen minutes you scarfed down as much food as you could, then went back upstairs to gather your shoes and phone. You noticed Bruce standing expectantly at the front door, wearing sunglasses as he peered at what you assumed to be a newly-delivered paper. He looked up when he heard your footsteps, making you hustle down the stairs.

Without a word he slid through the open door, but you reached your head around to see Alfred cleaning up the kitchen. You ran over to him and gave him a hug, quickly telling him about the email thing. He agreed to send the email shortly, and even offered to return your journalism supplies. Looking at the time—9:45—you had no choice but to take him up on it. He told you not to be a stranger and sent you off on your way. Your heels ached the arches of your feet, but you weren't taking a chance with the sewage water still taking up an inch of real estate on the concrete. Bruce was already pulling out of a matte black Lamborghini, the passenger door opening automatically as you walked to it. You slid into the leather seat and tucked your feet in as he sped off.

You watched out the window as trees and grass turned to buildings whizzing by. The car was quick and steady; the tinting on the windows seemed a bit excessive, but you understood the need. After a few minutes of silence he startled you with a question. "Why didn't you write the exposé?" He tried to make his voice strong, his tone nonconfrontational. You shrugged. You were still a bit bitter about the night before and his comments about your smarts, but if this was going to be your last time seeing him you figured there was no shame in being honest. "I didn't want to jeopardize the city. As much as I hate to admit it, you make it better." You let out a heavy sigh trying to rid of the tension. His hands stiffened on the wheel. It was the first kind thing you'd ever said to him; it was the first time someone other than Alfred had mentioned Batman to him... because you were the only one outside of him who knew. A small smile curled up his lips. Music to his insecure ears. Did he really make it better? Really? He wanted to. He really, really wanted to. Did you really mean it? Actually?

"STOP!" Your shout caused an immediate braking, and a worried mother clutched her kids as they rushed across the crosswalk. Bruce tensed, eyes wide. He'd never come close to hitting a pedestrian. His heart pounded as he glanced at you beside him. You stared with a tight-set jaw, your hands clenched together in your lap and eyes as wide as his own. He moved his attention back to the road and kept on, refusing to entertain any more potentially lethal thoughts.

It was 10am on the dot when you pulled up in front of your apartment complex. It had been such an awkward ride you hadn't questioned how he knew your address, but you didn't have time to pester him. Bruce got out just as you were jogging to the lobby doors, and your eyes nearly bulged out of your head as you hissed at him. "What are you doing?! Someone could see you!"

"Traffic is always bad around this time at the airport. We need all the time we can get, I'm helping." His tone was flat and he adjusted his sunglasses... as if they could distract from the Lambo in front of the complex screaming BRUCE WAYNE IS HERE! You pushed through the lobby and rushed to the elevator, Bruce calmly in tow. The doors opened and you both stepped inside. He sidled in next to you now, and you looked over at his outfit. Unlike the last elevator ride together, he was just wearing a black tee and trousers. He glanced at you from his periphery and you quickly moved your line of sight to the floor with a subtle blink. A subtle aroma of pink pepper and musk lingered in the air, mixed with a little bit of sweat. Your sweat. You hadn't showered in days, and did a little shift of your weight away from him. Embarrassment washed over you.

"What?" He turned his head, noticing your movement away. "Looking for more lint?"

No, I just smell bad. You thought. I probably smell like ass and I don't want that to be your last memory of me. It became apparent to you how terrible of an impression you would leave on the man—forcing your way into his home with blackmail, being forced to more than overstay your welcome, now he was helping you pack while you smelled like sweat and spit. It was embarrassing. Very embarrassing.

The DING of the elevator doors opening to your floor was like a call from heaven, and you rushed past him so he couldn't get a good sniff. You fumbled with the lock and thanked god how poor you'd been as a student; your apartment was small and minimalist, making it easy to throw everything into one or two luggage bags and move yourself back home in a jiffy. Trying your best to forget that a billionaire was standing in the middle of your studio, you went to your small closet and pulled out the large checked-luggage bag your dad had bought you two years prior. You hadn't been able to fill it then, but were grateful now for the extra real estate.

"What do you want me to do?"

You looked around the room, running through a short list of everything you'd have to do in the next half hour. The bedding needed to be removed, bathroom ransacked, kitchen food trashed, and clothes packed. Oh. And you needed to go down to the lobby and break the lease.

"Uh, can you clean out the fridge? I need to get to the lobby." You bit your lip hard, anxious as you grabbed your keys and rushed downstairs, ignoring the elevator in order to try and metabolize some of the stress. You only had about ten dollars left in your checking, and you'd forgotten that breaking a lease would mean an extra fee. When you made it to the receptionist, it was a new person you'd never seen before. She looked sour, and rolled her eyes when you walked up. "Hey uh, I need to break the lease."

"Name and unit number?" She smacked on gum as she sat up and started typing. You obliged, and after agonizing silence she shook her head. "Your lease ends this month anyway and you already paid the rent. We'll be sending a check to your permanent address after you have returned the keys with your deposit if everything is good."

Oh thank GOD. You thanked her profusely, somehow still out of breath, and went back up the stairs. Jesus. Thank god. If you had to ask Bruce Wayne for MONEY? You would've rather jumped off the Gotham bridge to your untimely demise. You put the key in your lock and opened the door to him standing with the bedding removed, fridge open and cleaned out, and half your clothes packed into the bag. Half of you wanted to be angry at him touching things without your consent, while the other was begrudgingly impressed. Almost like he read your mind, he spoke. "I didn't look at individual items, I just picked up armfuls and shoved them in."

Looking at your apartment now, the only thing left was the few toiletries in the closet (which could be recycled) and whatever was in your bathroom. You checked your watch: 10:20. "Thanks uh, can you wait in the car? I think I want to shower real quick."

He chuckled, plopping the last of your clothes into the bag. "I'm sure your seatmate will appreciate it.”

You gasped under your breath. "Really?" It hurt. You didn't want it to, but it did. You wanted to shoot something back at him, like you were only trying to smell like him or some shit. But it stung. For some reason. He chuckled again, shaking his head with a sly grin turning up his cheeks. "Nah. But you believed it."

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yourneighborhoodporg · 1 year ago

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The Guardian

Series Masterlist

Rating: T

Obi-Wan Kenobi x Reader

Summary: When Obi-Wan, Anakin, and Ahsoka crash land on the desolate, ice planet Hoth, they meet a stranger with great power and deep connections to their past. You join the trio, hoping to face your destiny, which has long been foretold. But when the Separatists and Sith threaten you and your newfound family, you’re forced to make sacrifices to defend your friends, fulfill the prophecy, and protect the man you’ve grown to love.

✨Playlist✨

Part I: Rescue of the Fates

The Hoth Arc

Chapter 1: The Accident

Chapter 2: The Revelation

Chapter 3: The Escape

The Arrival Arc

Chapter 4: Arrival— Part 1 & Part 2

Chapter 5: Identity

Chapter 6: Patience

Chapter 7: Master

The Dark Waters Arc

Chapter 8: Blackened Water— Part 1 & Part 2

Chapter 9: Ancient Instruments

Chapter 10: Troubled Water

Part II: Dawn of Enmity

The Malevolence Arc

Chapter 11: Alone— Part 1 & Part 2

Chapter 12: Separated

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lunainlove · 4 months ago

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I feel like I have read all the good fanfics on ao3 for ghostsoap 😭😭 in times like this I hate being so picky with what I read and all the other fanfics that catch my attention are not finished and I refuse to read until they are done because I’m not patient at all so I’m left with nothing 😭😭😭 and finding good fics is so difficult on ao3 like I usually get what I read from recommendations, snooping into my fav authors bookmarks and pure luck

Anyway if someone has good fanfics please lmk I’m open to anything but recently I’ve been craving some mission focused fic or something like that with found family (I’m a sucker for gaz price ghost soap laswell ale and rudy together) and a happy ending because the I absolutely adore angst as long as there’s a happy ending 😭😭😭😭

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boyimjustaloserforyourlove · 17 days ago

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they apologise

GUYS IF YOU LIKE IT OR HAVE ANY SUGGESTIONS PLEASE COMMENT I'D LOVE TO HEAR YOUR OPINIONS!!!!!! and please send like requests because I don't have any ideas😭

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sunshinebingo · 11 months ago

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The Things Autumn Did To Me

Merry Christmas @thelov3lybookworm!!! 🎁 It has been so nice to meet you through @acotargiftexchange and I had a great time secretly interacting with you. I had a lot of fun experimenting with your gift too (you and I have a lot in common btw 😌). I really hope that you will enjoy the slight mess that is this fic 🤭

***

Synopsis: Two months into their convenient marriage and Gwyneth and Azriel still have very strong feelings for each other. Is it really the hate that they claim it to be, or something else? Not even they can tell.

However, another chance at tackling the failed mission that has led them to where they are will make the two spies face something that they have both been afraid of. After all, the line separating hate from desire can be very thin.

Word Count: 3.5k

Warning: None for this chapter

Find the Masterlist here

Read Chapter 1 on Ao3 or below the cut

“Wife,” he sneered.

“Husband,” she sneered back.

Azriel walked to end of the table and sat down, carefully adjusting his wings behind him.

“Glad to see that you are still alive,” he said, pulling the plate that his wife had already filled for him closer.

“Glad to know that I am still the funny one,” Gwyn replied without looking up from her own plate.

Morning greeting, checked. Daily verification that his partner was still breathing, checked. What was left to do before breakfast? Ah right... Check the food for poison. His shadows made a sweep around the table, ensuring that nothing would lead to him dropping sick or dead.

When he finally raised his cup of tea to his lips after their quick inspection, his eyes landed on a pair of teal ones across the table. Azriel internally shuddered at Gwyn’s piercing gaze and at how her lips turned into a feline smirk.

“It will happen when you least expect it,” she said, then dug a knife into her pancakes.

Azriel snorted. As if she could sneak past his trusty shadows. They might have an odd affection for her – unlike their master – but they were still loyal to him. Many believed that, being a Shadowsinger, Azriel had full control over his shadows. He refrained from letting others know that they also tended to have a mind of their own. Like the little wisp which was currently ignoring him and was slowly making its way between the bowl of fruit and the teapot to reach her.

Gwyn’s eyes followed the movement of the shadow until it reached her hand and started swirling around her fingers, especially the one adorned with a silver band – a perfect match to the one on his own ring finger – that glinted against her pale, freckled skin. Her smile softened for the shadow in a way it never did for him.

While she watched the shadow, Azriel watched her. The rich copper hair that was put up in a very messy bun atop her head with random strands that escaped and which fell around her face, her pointed ears where she wore several simple studs, her nose and cheeks across which lay a scattering of freckles, as if someone had tossed them with a careless hand, her plump lips, her eyes. Those bright eyes that had unsettled him from the very first time he had looked into them. A depthless teal ocean that often seemed like they could see straight through him. Gwyn was a creature of cruel beauty and Azriel hated her more for it.

When she looked up from the shadow playing with her hand, Azriel lowered his eyes to his food before she could see the thoughts that he always tried his hardest to hide in her presence.

“Is there something on my face?” she asked.

“Yes,” he replied, stirring his tea despite having added nothing to it.

“Well,” she went on, unable to stay quiet for long, as always. “What is it?”

“You look...” the shadows whispered an assortment of words though none that he was willing to use. Instead, he responded with, “...like you slept in a tree.”

Gwyn let out a snicker. “That would certainly be better than trying to sleep while listening to your pacing all night.”

It took him a few seconds to understand and none more to feel stupid about it. The endless pacing had nothing to do with the work he did at this hour and everything to do with him trying to focus while also attempting to block out the sound of her thumping heart and that of her mumblings while she slept. His office was right above her bedroom on the third level and he had selfishly never stopped to think that she might hear him walking around on the wooden floor when he could hear her too. He had tried to work in other rooms instead but the pestering of his shadows and their insistence to be close to her was even more annoying. At least in his office they shut up and contended themselves with spreading on the floor while listening to her.

It was the first time in the whole two months since they had been living together that she was mentioning it. Surprising of her since she often found something to complain about him. He did the same but, unlike hers, his complaints about her were at least justified.

“Some Spymaster you are,” she mumbled around a mouthful, “Not even able to walk without raising the dead.”

Azriel looked up at her and smirked. “I do it on purpose to piss you off.”

Gwyn swallowed her food. Her face remained impassive when she spoke again. “You do that well enough by just existing.”

He did not respond. He only held her gaze, risking getting lost in her ocean eyes, until footsteps were heard entering the dining room and someone cleared their throat.

“A letter arrived from the Prince of Autumn,” Roslin, their maid and one of the very few persons aware of the truth behind their union, announced and handed an envelope to Gwyn. Roslin had been Gwyn’s trusted maid when she lived in the Forest House. She was also a spy and had helped Gwyn with maintaining her second identity in the Autumn Court by covering up her secret activities. She offered Roslin her thanks with a usual friendly smile before the maid left the dining room.

“What is it?” Azriel asked, eyes narrowed on the folded paper that Gwyn took out of the envelope.

“Hopefully something that will get me as far away from you as possible.”

Her comment suddenly made him want to spend his entire day being as close to her as he could. Not because he liked her company whatsoever. Their shared mission already ensured that they spent a ridiculous amount of time together. Including sharing a house and attempting to look like an oh so happy couple in public.

“I’m afraid, dear wife, that no one can get rid of me so easily. Least of all you.”

Azriel had learned a great deal since they sealed their marriage two months ago. He obviously learned a lot about Gwyn. And, surprisingly, a lot about himself too, especially his patience and tolerance of her.

Gwyn placed the empty envelope on the table, picked up a little spoon and brandished it at Azriel as though it was a dagger. “I could kill you with this,” she narrowed her eyes at him.

“I’m trembling,” he deadpanned. The shadows snickered around him.

He had always taken pride in his infinite patience. That was one of the qualities that made him the best at his job. But somehow, the female sitting across from him, reading her letter as if she wasn’t the bane of his existence, had found ways to challenge almost all of his skills, including his ability to remain calm under any circumstance, and also his ability to charm any female and male alike. That last skill would not be of much use anymore anyway since, to the rest of the world, all of it was now supposed to be reserved for Gwyn only. His wife. The one who made him lose his godsdamned mind in every possible way.

It was not as though he had ever seduced anyone in hope of anything more but a few hours of pleasure. His family thought that he refused to commit to a serious relationship, much less marriage, because his job was too dangerous to rope a potential partner in such things. Being the Spymaster and non-official torturer of his court made Azriel do things that most would cower to do and put him in dangers few were willing to face.

The reality was that Azriel did not want anyone to feel shackled to him. Although he had witnessed many successful relationships in his life, including the couples in his found family, his childhood had left more scars on him than those on his burned hands. He had witnessed what a monster his sire had been to his mother. For so long Azriel had feared that his resemblance to the cruel male might be more than physical. He feared that the beast he became when he tortured for the protection of his court might scare away a partner, or even worse, hurt them. So, instead of taking the risk, he preferred to block out the possibility of finding out altogether.

His several centuries as a spy might have made him an expert in the art of seduction, but he was empty handed when it came to true romantic feelings. Azriel doubted anyone with a bit of common sense would willingly stay with him if they knew how little he knew about love. Save for his family, the one with which he was related in every way except for blood, he had never let anyone close enough to his heart to feel such things. That was why he had been more than a little nervous when Rhysand and Eris had suggested this marriage, despite being aware that it was one of convenience. Imposed was a better word than suggested. Though even if Rhysand was his High Lord, Azriel could have still been opposed to his brother’s orders. But he did see the necessity of the situation, especially for Gwyn.

Since she was herself a spy, he knew that Gwyn had also seen her fair share of danger and blood. He knew what she also had to do to protect her court. Being from the Autumn Court and secretly acting with Eris against her High Lord for the greater good of Prythian, Azriel knew that her position had been more precarious than his. For Gwyn, this marriage was not just to keep plotting against Beron to put Eris on the throne. It was also to save her life. If the High Lord of Autumn found out that the lady who had lived in his home her whole life was a spy trying to bring him down, death would prove to be a small mercy for her.

For most, it might seem like their paths had crossed at one of the High Lord and Ladies’ meeting in Autumn, which also involved important members of all the seven courts and had fallen so deeply in love that they had been married in the same week.

The truth was that they had met several times before that to exchange information about what Beron was up to behind closed doors. Gwyn was the one who Eris trusted to pass on information about his father’s secret plans. She had been like a beam in the night on their first meeting in a wood bordering her court. She had looked like she had been crafted by the capable hands of the Mother herself.

Gwyn had also looked like she was not happy at all with the new secret alliance between the Night Court and the Autumn Prince. Azriel had not been either. Even now, he was still suspicious of Eris’ true intentions when it came to this alliance. Azriel despised the arrogant Prince. He despised Autumn Court and anything that had to do with it. He had never wanted to work alongside one of them, but fate had apparently decided otherwise.

“I bet you would read that thing faster if it was smut,” he complained when she remained silent while her eyes kept going back and forth on the letter.

Gwyn looked up at him with another scowl. “Shut up and quit distracting me.”

With a flicker of her hand, she summoned a small golden flame that she then ran across the ivory page. She read the hidden message that Eris had left there for her before burning the entire letter along with the envelope.

“It’s an invitation from Eris,” she finally explained. “Autumn Solstice is being held at the Forest House in a week.”

Azriel cursed. As a former member, it was natural for the redhead to be invited to celebrate with the rest of her home court. But looking at Gwyn, he saw what she was not saying. This event would be their second, possibly last chance to get a hand on Beron’s plans and avoid a possible war, or at least prepare for an eventual one. Something else also shone in his wife’s eyes. A determination that this time, they would not fail. They should not. This marriage had been a last resort to hide Gwyn’s secret identity. It had been the only plan that Eris could come up with to get his cousin out of reach of his father before this one could start questioning her presence so close to his private quarters and start to suspect her.

“Well, my broody bat.”

Azriel rolled his eyes. Gwyn picked a bunch of grapes from the bowl and observed one carefully before popping it into her mouth. “I hope you’re ready to have some fun.”

“We’re going there on a mission Berdara. Not to party.”

Gwyn shrugged. “Who says one has to exclude the other.”

The two of them had different approaches to spying. Azriel preferred to keep to the dark. His shadows allowed him to remain unseen and unheard even in plain sight. He had always been the quiet kind of person, picking up clues by silently observing while his shadows searched for what was out of his reach. Gwyn, on the other, was the complete opposite. While she could also hide in plain sight, her talent was that of deception. She could have been a shape shifter with how easily she could adapt to and blend into any situation.

“How do you propose we do that?” he asked.

She pushed her empty plate aside and propped her elbows on the table.

“Well your shadows could signal us when the time is right.” She lifted the hand where a shadow was once again twirling in between her fingers and down her wrist.

“We’ll then pretend to sneak away to do what we were doing last time.”

Azriel’s fork stopped midway to his mouth. His shadows circled him excitedly, chanting their glee at Gwyn’s plan.

On the evening that had led to their current situation, Gwyn and Azriel were on a common mission to infiltrate Beron’s quarters to try and retrieve some incriminating documents about the High Lord of Autumn. These would have been the perfect proof to put Beron on trial for his actions against peace in Prythian. Unfortunately, a few wrong moves had led to them being caught where no one should have been. The only thing that had saved them then had been to act as if they had been a second away from having sex.

Azriel still remembered every single detail of it, from the very first second that Gwyn had grabbed his shirt and had pulled him down against her. He remembered how it had felt to have her in his arms, how her lips had moved fervently against his as if her life depended on it, which it did. If he closed his eyes, he could recall how her hands had felt as she had glided them across his chest, his arms, on his neck and the way she had tugged at the roots of his hair. How urgent those same hands had been when she had pull him closer by hooking a finger at the seam of his pants. The sounds she had made when his tongue had tangled with hers had been louder than the approaching footsteps of the guards. Perhaps it was in that exact moment, where his mission had shifted from those documents to her, that his shadows had started to become obsessed with her. More so than they had been since they started meeting for a few brief minutes to exchange information.

Everyone knew that Autumn Court faeries had fire in their veins. But only then had Azriel learned what the rumours were truly about. If a kiss that was devoid of feelings and which was only meant to fool the guards was like that, then Azriel did not even want to think about what a real kiss from her would be like. He refused to imagine it. The fake one had burned a big enough hole in him. Glancing at the Autumn female across the table, Azriel cursed her for having ruined every kiss he ever had before and certainly all others that he could have had if he was not bound to her.

“Or,” he proposed to prevent himself from spiralling deeper into their backstory and what it was doing to him. “We can just pretend to leave.”

Gwyn looked at him like he had said the stupidest thing ever. The last time he followed her lead had resulted in them getting married. What would happen this time? Would Eris find a random child that they would be forced to raise together to keep up their disguise? Azriel’s thoughts quieted when a shadow rushed from where it was hovering beside his left wing to remind him of what had prompted her to kiss him and he reluctantly agreed to the reasoning behind it.

He went on explaining the paths that they could take around the Forest House to avoid running into anyone if they followed his plan and how his shadows would help in the process.

“Well?”

He waited for her opinion when he finished.

“Huh? Sorry, I wasn’t listening.”

Azriel closed his eyes and sighed. Fucking Autumn courts and their fucking hard heads. Fucking wife and her fucking stubbornness.

“You come up with something then, smart-ass.”

She started to open her mouth but Azriel cut her off. “Something that does not involve fucking in Beron’s quarters.”

Gwyn huffed. Her cheeks started to turn pink, probably from the fire coursing through her and which seemed to run hotter at every outburst. “I wasn’t about to say that, you dimwit.”

Azriel gave her another roll of his eyes before returning to his food. Gwyn said nothing more. Yet by looking at her face, the emotions that he was still learning to read there, Azriel could see the gears of her mind working. She remained like this for the whole time that he finished his breakfast.

When he was done, he rose from his chair and walked to her. He grabbed her chin between his thumb and index and lifted her head until she looked at him.

“We have a week to come up with a solid plan. There’s no need to fry up your head over this right away.”

He suspected that she was worried about going back while there were still talks about her. Leaving the Forest House was not so simply done without a proper reason after all, especially for someone who had been raised there. Several rumours had already rose about the lady who had so hastily left her home to settle in the Night Court with the infamous Shadowsinger. His reputation in Rhys’ inner circle alone had fuelled the suspicions of more than one person, including Beron.

Azriel dragged his thumb along the seam of her lips, right where a trace of the syrup from her pancakes was still glistening.

“You’ll need that brain of yours to come up with more creative insults for me. The ones you currently have are terrible,” he added.

Gwyn brought a hand to the one that held her face. She slowly wrapped her long fingers around his wrist without looking away from his face. More pink spread across her cheeks and made her freckles stood out. Azriel badly wanted to know what she was truly hiding behind those eyes in this moment.

“Can you please do something for me, my dear husband?” her voice came out like a soft breeze singing in the night. Azriel had the reflex to stop his wings from twitching.

“What is it?”

He convinced himself that his breathlessness had nothing to do with that voice which was sweeter than the sticky syrup on his finger. Her hand tightened around his wrist.

“Throw yourself off a cliff,” she gritted out and forcefully yanked his hand away. Gone was the sweet, melodic voice. Her chair made a loud screeching sound as she pushed it back and stood.

Azriel held in a chuckle when she raised her chin and stomped off of the living room. “See you later, my annoying husband.”

He followed her as he made his way to his room. “Sure, my petulant wife.”

They went up the stairs and reached the door to her room first. Gwyn paused with a hand on the handle. “Don’t miss me too much, my haughty husband.” She opened the door and walked inside.

Azriel stood at the threshold of her bedroom with his arms crossed and a smirk on his lips. “You wish, my Autumn witch.”

Gwyn’s returning smile was as wicked as a witch’s. “I know you will.” And she slammed the door in his face.

To Be Continued...

#acotar gift exchange #acotar secret santa 2023 #gwynriel #marriage of convenience #haters to ... stay tuned to find out #some spying #some banter #some angst #some smut and fluff #azriel shadowsinger #gwyneth berdara #gwyn x azriel #azriel x gwyn #gwynriel fic

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aventurineswife · 20 days ago

Note

Could you do Reader x Aventurine where there are college rivals, reader always a top student not until Aventurine arrived and took reader 1st place and they have become the 2nd place, they always bickering who's the best but they never cross any line

One day reader got sick, Aventurine was worried because he hadn't seen them for 2 days so he decided to pay them a visit and found out reader had a high fever so he rushed out to buy a medicine for reader until now they have become close but still have those rivalry banter, rather more playful now

Kinda like rival to lover but they're like mutual pining until both of them say something

Closer by Competition

Summary: In college, you and Aventurine are fierce rivals, constantly competing for the top spot in your program. Aventurine’s unexpected arrival pushes you down to second place, sparking a lively competition filled with witty banter and mutual respect. But when you fall sick, Aventurine’s concern leads him to visit and care for you, marking a shift in your relationship. Slowly, your rivalry evolves into something warmer, as you both realize that perhaps you’re better together than in constant competition.

Tags: College Rivals to Lovers, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Rivalry with Affection, Fluff, Sickfic, Academic Competition, Banter, Playful Rivalry, Light Angst with a Happy Ending

Warnings: Mild language (playful insults and teasing), Brief mention of illness and fever

The rivalry between you and Aventurine began the moment he transferred into your program. You'd always been the top student, basking in the quiet satisfaction of watching your scores inch higher than anyone else's. But then he arrived��Aventurine, the guy with sandy-blond hair, sharp magenta and cyan eyes, and that ever-present confident smile that made your blood simmer. From the first test he aced, taking your spot at the top, to the last debate he won by the narrowest of margins, he had become your academic nemesis.

You were both locked in this unspoken battle, constantly throwing playful, biting remarks at each other in the lecture hall, or subtly trying to outdo each other with project presentations that dazzled the professors. But there was a line, one neither of you ever crossed—despite the bickering, there was an unspoken respect between you. And maybe… just maybe… a spark.

Then came a week where you weren't around to throw the usual quips his way. Aventurine noticed your absence. Two days passed without your witty retorts or side-eyed glares across the classroom, and he found himself… worried. The idea that something might actually be wrong bothered him in a way he didn’t expect.

Without a second thought, he managed to get your address from a mutual friend and decided to visit. When he knocked, your groggy, barely coherent voice from inside told him all he needed to know. He pushed the door open to find you sprawled on your bed, looking paler than he’d ever seen you.

"[Name]," he said, worry clear in his usually cool tone. "Why didn’t you tell anyone you were sick?"

Your response was a half-hearted, sleepy glare, which normally might have been funny if you didn't look like you were about to pass out. Aventurine didn’t waste any time. He left your apartment and returned shortly after with fever medication, a water bottle, and a bag of snacks, a surprising softness in his gaze as he handed you the medicine.

“You know,” he said, his usual smirk making an appearance. “For someone who supposedly likes being number one, you don’t seem very committed to staying alive.”

You rolled your eyes weakly, the smallest smile tugging at your lips. “Coming from the guy who’s obsessed with competition. Figures you'd be here just to make sure I get back to competing with you.”

He chuckled, brushing a stray hair off your forehead. “I wouldn’t want my only worthy rival giving up that easily.”

From that day, something changed between you two. Your exchanges softened, though the rivalry remained. You’d still argue over who got the higher test score, whose presentation dazzled more, but now your banter was laced with a new warmth. He’d check in on you more often, and you found yourself doing the same, wondering if he’d eaten lunch, if he’d stayed up too late cramming. It wasn’t long before people around campus began to notice how your rivalry was slowly morphing into something else.

One day, after yet another mock argument about a recent exam score, Aventurine grinned and leaned closer, his eyes dancing. “You know, I think we might make a better team than rivals.”

You felt a warmth rise in your cheeks, rolling your eyes to hide it. “Maybe. But don’t think that’s going to make me go easy on you.”

He laughed, his smile softer this time. “Good. I’d hate for it to be too easy.” And with that, your rivalry became something deeper, both of you leaning into the subtle affection that had grown between you.

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dramioneasks · 9 months ago

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Lovefool - WillowingScribe - E, 12 chapters - Draco gets doomed by the Ministry to live without his magic for a year. Hermione, tasked to chauffeur the proud but now magically-impotent wizard to a small cottage in the middle of nowhere, never imagined she would be responsible for teaching her former nemesis how to use a toaster. Neither of them would've thought that through their forced collaboration they would learn to appreciate each other beyond their wildest imagination. OR A decade spanning love story inspired by When Harry Met Sally but with a much heavier dash of spice.

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fandomfaeofveryfewf4cks · 1 year ago

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Goldenheart fanfic below the break

No smut, but there's a lot of flirty banter and like, one curse word. And a sword fight. But it's a cute duel between knight boyfriends. (With maybe a little a lot of foreshadowing for the movie thrown in)

No idea how long this is other than it's definitely a lot longer than I thought it would be. Anyway. Hope you enjoy this fic of Bal and Amby letting off some steam the night before the knighting ceremony. :)

In the face of adversity, I am by your side

Thwack! Thwack! Thud. Thud. Thwack!

Then, there were the thousands of people in this kingdom that would be watching the knighting ceremony tomorrow. Watching HIM. At least half of those people fiercely believing that he doesn't belong there and is better off back in the ditch he came from.

The training dummy had seen better days, but it took each hit like a pro as Ballister attacked it with thoroughly-practiced precision and a passionate power that's been keeping him going all his life. It is the fire inside him that kept him fighting for what he believed in. In the face of being sneered at for being a poor kid on the street who could barely afford food, let alone the luxurious baths that all the rich folk seemed to think was a necessity if you wanted to receive any sort of empathy.

As well as in the face of the knights and knights in training, his peers, when they let their pride get in the way of seeing him as a useful part of the team when he proved to be more skilled than them.

He's going to have to face a good number of them tomorrow. He's been told about all the things he will have to do in the ceremony and knows them by heart. Ride in formation up to the bottom of the stairs. Stand straight. You will be second to step before the queen, and when you do, you will wait for her to address you first and thank her. Kneel and present your sword to her. After she nods for you to stand, take your sword and stand on your mark to the side.

Swordfighting will not come into this ceremony. No one will draw a sword on anyone.

Still, a large part of the kingdom doesn't agree with that. And it's hard to feel worthy of defending a people when so many of them are telling you you aren't. So he comes out here.

But Balister is still out here in the empty training yard, fighting a dummy. It helps him clear his mind and feel less anxious when he is actively working hard to achieve his goals. The precise marks hitting the dummy in the exact spots he's been hitting it in for years, leaving prominent marks, some scattered and faded from when he was starting out. From where he began.

He really has come a long way.

Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.

He tries his godamn hardest to prove himself.

Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!

And does his best to ignore all the condescending and sometimes ruthless words and actions that have been thrown his way.

THWACK! THWACK! THWACK!

And knows he'll never truly feel like he deserves to be here!

CLANG!!!

Ballister takes some heavy breaths as he looks at the person behind the sword that has just blocked his own.

He sees blond hair framing a kind, smiling face, and brown eyes looking at him with more love than Balister had ever known before in his life.

There's also some concern.

"Bal. What are you doing?"

Ballister feels heat behind his eyes that had started well before Abrosius stopped him. He lowers his sword and Ambrosius does the same.

"I was just-" he pauses. He wants to make an excuse about how he was just training so he'll sleep better before tomorrow. And while that isn't totally untrue, they both know there's more to this and he doesn't like lying in general, especially to Ambrosius.

"I needed to vent a bit."

"Vent via sword?" Ambrosius draws out the word "sword" with a little lilt in his voice, and tilts his head as he twists his mouth and blinks at Ballister in that silly way that almost always gets at least a chuckle out of him.

He manages to tilt the side of his mouth up in a half smile for a second, still breathing somewhat heavily.

"Yeah, vent via sword."

Ambrosius does a small frown. "You could've come found me you know?"

"You had that fitting for the last touches of your armor for tomorrow and-

"And I would've gladly ditched it to be with you, especially if you needed me." Ambrosius brought his hand to gently hold Balister's face. That, combined with his earnest look, made it easy for Ballister to lean into his hand, both to seek comfort, and maybe hide a bit of his embarrassment as he blushed. Not that he really needs to hide from Ambrosius, but there are some habits Ballister is going to need a long time to break if he ever does at all. He's gotten pretty good at appearing confident, but feeling confident is still a struggle for him. Even though it's a little easier around Ambrosius.

Everything is easier when he's with Ambrosius.

"Besides, do you really think I need more glitz and glamor on that heavy ass armor? Honestly, this face is all I need to be the charming golden boy everybody loves."

Ballister does smile and scoff at that. "First of all, language." Ambrosius rolls his eyes and shakes his head with a dramatic sigh, which only makes Bal smile more. "And second of all, that armor IS pretty eyecatching. A little extra blitz does goes a long way." His hands are around Ambrosius' waist now. Ambrosius' other hand comes up to Ballister's chest. He leans in to whisper barely half an inch away from his lips, "and I wouldn’t be so cocky about the face thing."

Ambrosius gasps, trying not to let the sound turn into laughter." He pushes Bal. They let go of each other, but don't make any more space between them.

"You like my face. You know you do."

Ballister pretends to make a thinking face. "Hmmm, I don't know about that."

Ambrosius steps back and taps his sword saying "well, in that case, I may have to challenge you to a duel, Sir Boldheart." He smirks and wiggles his eyebrows at him.

Balister tries and fails not to smile as he says "are you sure about that. I've beaten you sooo many times before. What makes you think you'll win this time?"

"I have a secret weapon up my sleeve," Ambrosius declares dramatically. "But if you're too scared..." He smiles knowingly.

Ballister's eyes light up with the challenge. He takes a stance.

They circle each other slowly at first. A good couple feet of space between them. Their swords meet flirtatiously a few times before Ballister moves in.

Clang! Clang! Clang!

Ambrosius is backed up a few paces. He turns from Ballister to come at him from a slightly different angle and-

Clang! Clang! Clang!

Ballister meets each blow without moving from his spot. He smiles. Ambrosius narrows his eyes and crinkles his nose jokingly. "Oh, I'm Ballister, and I'm as unmovable as a rock." Their swords continue meeting as Ballister responds. "It's not my fault that you're as unable to stand still as a dancer."

Ambrosius laughs. He does an extra twirl as he brings his leg up to hit him square in the chest. Ballister takes a single step back.

"Not as immovable as you thought then, huh." "Well, if anyone was going to move me, it would be you." Ambrosius stops and turns pink at the sudden sincerity. Ballister takes the chance to swing his sword carefully over Ambrosius' head. His blond curls swooping down from the air as it goes past before popping right back up. Ambrosius looks up in surprise before frowning at him. He raises a single eyebrow that gets a small snicker out of Ballister. Ambrosius goes back in and they continue their playful duel. Each of them put slightly more effort in until Ballister has Ambrosius pushed up against the dummy. Ambrosius tries to wriggle away but can't.

"Give in?" Ballister asks.

Ambrosius pauses before glancing down at his lips. "Nah." And kisses Balister hard enough to knock him just enough off his stance to be able to step back and push Ballister to the ground. They're swords ditched in the fall to avoid any accidents. Ambrosius lands on top of him and sits up, pinning him down. He says triumphantly, "I told you I had a secret weapon."

Ballister shifts a bit then responds with a smirk, "do you now?" Quick as a flash, Ambrosius finds himself flipped onto his back. Ballister leans close enough for their noses to brush and says, "Funnily enough, I do as well," Then quickly stands up and grabs his sword before Ambrosius can flip them again. He points the sword in the general direction of Ambrosius, who is lying on the ground in shock.

"I think this means I win then, yeah?"

Ambrosius lowers his head tiredly and laughs. "Yeah, Bal. I think you definitely win."

Ballister goes over and holds out his hand. Ambrosius takes it and helps himself up with ease before looking Ballister in the eyes. There really is so much love in them. Ballister can hardly believe it.

But then, he really should by now. They've known each other since they were kids and even with the media painting them as rivals, even with nearly everyone else in Ambrosius' life telling him to be someone who, in a world that makes sense to them, would never associate with Bal... Even with all the things making it harder for Ambrosius to love Ballister, he loves him anyway. And, though it wasn't nearly as strong then, he has loved Ballister pretty much since they met. And Ballister has loved Ambrosius just as much.

Ballister has always had his own fire to keep him going. Keeping him fighting. But when Ambrosius became his best friend, he started to think maybe he doesn't have to keep that fire going alone. Now, he knows he doesn't. Even if he still forgets it sometimes, Ambrosius is always there and will always love him. And that makes the fire burn brighter than ever.

"Feeling better?" Ambrosius asks.

Ballister looks at his boyfriend and feels how the abundance of love in his chest has made his anxiety about the ceremony incredibly smaller.

"Yes, I do. Thank you."

"ANY time, Bal." He brings ballister closer to lean their foreheads against one another's.

"I'll always be here for you. I love you."

"I love you too."

They let themselves stay in the comfort of each other's love for the other for a moment. Their breathing slows to an even pace after being heightened in the fight.

Ambrosius leans away. "Wanna get tacos?"

They get tacos to-go for once and giggle as they hold hands all the way up to their secret spot high in the castle. They sit shoulder to shoulder as they start unwrapping their tacos and settle in to watch the sunset together.

Both of them are still nervous about tomorrow. They each have mountains of expectations that will be pressing that much more heavily into their shoulders as the eyes of thousands bear down on them. But they will take on the challenge together.

As Ambrosius leans into him, Ballister looks at the bright pink hues in the sky and thinks to himself with a surprising amount of certainty, "Whatever happens tomorrow, I know I'm not alone."

#nimona movie #nimona #goldenheart #ballister x ambrosius #balister boldheart #ambrosius goldenloin #pre movie #foreshadowing #banter #rivals to lovers #sort of #no smut #just a lot of flirting #and hand holding #i like fluff okay #fluff #especially fluff with underlying angst in stories where you know what's going to happen #but keep reading anyway #i might do a part 2 #but if i do #it'll mirror the scene where they fight in the movie and go through the emotions of how that fight is so different from this fight #and so much more painful #did you like my pink sunset foreshadowing how Nimona will be helping Ballister into the next phase of his life after the impending trauma #that's about to happen?#i felt proud of it #maybe a little too proud #sword #swordfighting #i kind of combined the characterization from both movie and the comic book for these two #nimona comic

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